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THORPE, 


HUMAN    LIFE    THEREIN. 


WILLIAM    MOUNTFORD. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS. 


M  DCCC  LII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

WILLIAM     MOUNTFORD, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE:    METCALF  AND  COMPANY. 


Si  oi 


THORPE. 


i. 

QUIET,  ancient,  and  thriving  is  the  look  of 
Thorpe.  It  is  a  small  place,  and  almost  con- 
sists of  one  long  street ;  at  one  end  of  which  is  a 
large  square,  with  a  market-cross  in  the  middle 
of  it,  and  with  St.  John's  Church  on  one  of  its 
sides.  At  the  other  end  of  the  long  street  is  the 
Presbyterian  Chapel,  embowered  in  trees.  There 
is  a  large  graveyard  round  it.  And  on  one  side 
of  the  graveyard,  in  a  garden,  stands  the  Parson- 
age. In  the  long  street,  about  the  middle,  are  the 
almshouses  for  the  widows  of  decayed  trades- 
men and  farmers.  They  form  three  sides  of  a 
square,  and  are  only  one  story  in  height.  Agree- 
ably to  the  will  of  the  founder,  and  in  accordance 
with  what  was  the  fashion  three  hundred  years 
ago,  the  almswomen  wear  gowns  of  black  cloth, 


1608889 


THORPE 


and  scarlet  hats  of  a  yard  high,  and  a  conical 
shape.  And  now  and  then  one  of  them  may  be 
seen  crossing  the  square,  or  coming  out  of  the 
gate  into  the  street,  in  her  fantastic  dress.  In 
the  long  street  there  is  many  a  half-timber  house, 
with  its  high  gable.  And  of  the  brick  houses, 
a  great  number  have  their  fronts  all  overgrown 
with  ivy. 

The  surrounding  country  is  a  highly  cultivated 
district;  and  all  over  it  stand  farm-houses,  each 
one  of  them  strong  and  cheerful.  To  nearly 
every  house  there  is  an  open  porch,  with  benches 
inside.  In  the  yard,  close  by,  stands  a  dove- 
cot; and  a  little  apart,  by  themselves,  are  ranged 
the  ricks  of  corn  or  hay,  —  two,  five,  ten,  or  even 
twenty. 

On  a  fine  evening  in  August,  at  Thorpe,  two 
persons  seated  themselves  on  the  steps  of  the  mar- 
ket-cross. The  one  was  about  twenty-eight  years 
of  age,  of  a  dark  complexion,  and  bright,  quick 
eyes.  He  was  dressed  in  black,  and  looked  lan- 
guid. The  other  was  a  native  of  the  village,  but 
not  a  resident.  And  this  one  said,  "  Martin  May, 
you  are  tired;  so  let  us  sit  here  a  few  minutes." 

"  What  is  the  history  of  this  town  ? "  Martin 
May*  asked. 

"It  is  very  probable  that  of  this  place  the  be- 


A    TALE. 


ginning  was  this  cross ;  and  that  the  town  grew 
up  about  it.  Properly,  Thorpe  is  an  out-town- 
ship of  the  last  place  we  came  through  yester- 
day, before  arriving  at  the  Dell.  And  I  sup- 
pose, in  a  gazetteer,  you  would  hardly  find  this 
place  mentioned  under  its  own  name.  Nor  would 
it  be  easy  to  decide  what  its  name  really  is. 
For,  like  some  other  towns,  it  has  several  names, 
one  of  local  and  another  of  legal  origin,  and 
another  perhaps  derived  from  some  forgotten  cir- 
cumstance. Now  this  place  is  called  indifferently 
Thorpe,  King's  Thorpe,  Thorpe  Regis,  and  Cro- 

• 

thorpe ;  which,  no  doubt,  is  a  corruption  of  Cross 
Thorpe." 

"  A  number  of  appellations !  That  is  more  cu- 
rious than  useful,  I  should  think." 

"  But,  May,  about  the  character  of  the  people 
there  is  no  such  dubiousness.  You  may  believe 
what  they  tell  you.  And  customs  are  none  the 
less  practices,  and  people  are  none  the  less  trust- 
worthy persons,  for  being  in  a  town  which  calls 
itself  Thorpe,  but  which  the  gazetteers  and  law- 
yers call  by  another  name." 

"  And  now  tell  me,  West,  as  regards  the  in- 
habitants, what  kind  of  a  place  is  this?" 

"  O,  that  is  for  you  to  find  out,  now  that  I 
have  settled  you  at  the  Dell,  with  my  father,  and 


6  THORPE, 

shown  you  up  and  down  the  lanes,  and  seated 
you  on  the  market-cross.  O,  my  uncle  Welby 
is  coming  this  way.  I  will  ask  him  your  ques- 
tion. Uncle,  what  do  you  call  this  town  as  a 
place  to  live  in  ? " 

"  Why,  John,  a  sweet,  beautiful  spot !  I  have 
lived  here  fifty  years  and  more ;  and  it  has  always 
been  the  same ;  and  it  always  will  be  as  long 
as  we  deserve  to  have  it  so.  It  is  we  that  ought 
to  be  better,  not  the  place.  Love,  and  union, 
and  charity,  —  let  us  have  that  among  us  mas- 
ters. Though,  as  it  is,  we  are  a  good  people 
here,  a  good,  neighborly  people.  For  there  is 
not  a  man  among  us  that  means  harm  any  way 
to  any  body,  I  think.  And  if  there  is,  then  I 
say  see  the  country.  See  how  the  fields  all  lie 
laughing  up  at  the  sky ;  and  how  the  lark  soars 
up  to  sing  under  the  sun ;  and  how  beautiful  the 
little  woods,  the  copses,  are  to  look  at,  and  how 
solemn  to  walk  in !  O,  a  sweet,  beautiful  country 
this  is!" 

When  Farmer  Welby  had  left,  John  West  said, 
"  That  is  just  like  my  uncle.  But  see !  yonder 
goes  Miss  Pinkey,  with  her  nose  up  in  the  air. 
And  she  is  of  opinion  that  this  is  a  dull  town, 
an  insufferable  place :  because  there  is  not  a  the- 
atre here,  nor  a  fashionable  church,  nor  any  body, 


A    TALE.  / 

nor  a  monthly  exhibition  of  the  fashions.  But 
here  comes  Abel  Pratt.  He  is  a  laborer,  with  a 
large  family  and  small  means.  Good  evening, 
Abel.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 
The  times  have  been  rather  hard  lately.  Yet, 
on  the  whole,  you  think  this  town  to  live  in  is 
what  one  would  wish  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  good,  healthy  place.  As  being  God's 
it  is  very  good,  but  not  quite  so  good  as  being 
man's.  That,  I  suppose,  is  the  exact  truth. 
Though  some  of  the  gentry  are  very  well  inclined 
to  the  poor  at  times,  such  as  Christmas,  or  when 
there  is  the  cholera.  Yes,  it  is  a  very  good  place 
to  live  in,  though  rather  hard  for  some  of  us 
sometimes.  Now  and  then,  towards  the  end  of 
the  week,  I  am  very  tired;  and  then  the  place 
does  not  seem  to  me  so  happy.  But  then  di- 
rectly there  comes  the  Sabbath,  and  the  minis- 
ter's sermon.  And  so  on  Monday  I  am  strong 
again  for  another  week,  and  contented  and  happy. 
Good  evening,  gentlemen." 

"  Good  evening,  Abel." 

"  Who  is  this  minister  ?  "  inquired  Martin  May. 

"  He  is  the  Reverend  Richard  Baxter  Lingard. 
And  he  will  have  to  be  your  minister.  For  I 
suppose  that  on  a  Sunday  your  American  Pu- 
ritanism would  scarcely  be  comfortable  out  of  a 
meeting-house." 


8 


THORPE 


"  But  what  is  the  meeting-house,  the  church  ?  " 

"  It  is  called  the  Presbyterian  Chapel.  And 
it  is  my  own  place  of  worship." 

"  Your  minister,  then,  is  a  Presbyterian.  Is  he 
very  strict  in  his  opinions?" 

"  For  one  opinion  you  would  call  him  a  Cath- 
olic, and  for  another  a  Unitarian  ;  for  one  an 
Arminian,  and  for  another  a  Quaker.  But  in 
reality  he  is  a  Christian;  and  it  is  all  he  wishes 
to  be  called.  Though  he  says,  if  he  must  have 
a  sectarian  name,  he  would  rather  be  called  Pres- 
byterian than  any  thing  else,  because  it  means 
nothing.  Myself,  I  should  call  him  an  educated 
George  Fox ;  and  then,  again,  for  some  other  rea- 
sons, I  should  not.  For  his  doctrine  he  is  an- 
swerable to  no  man,  or  synod,  or  bishop ;  not 
even  to  his  congregation ;  but  only  to  Jesus  Christ 
and  God.  And  this  direct  responsibility  to  the 
Head  of  the  Church  is  our  Presbyterian  pecu- 
liarity. And  for  the  maintenance  of  it,  my  an- 
cestors were  sufferers  for  many  a  year.  And, 
indeed,  one  of  them  died  in  a  prison^  to  which 
he  had'  been  sentenced  by  the  bishop  of  this 
diocese,  for  refusing  to  attend  service  in  that 
church  opposite.  I  wish  this  evening  Mr.  Lin- 
gard  would  come  this  way,  so  that  you  might 
hear  him  talk.  Ah,  what  does  this  village  look 


A    TALE.  y 

like  in  his  eyes,  that  are  the  eyes  of  the  Spirit! 
That  is  what  I  should  like  to  hear  him  say." 

"  What  a  rate  that  carriage  drives  at !  It  is 
a  fine  pair  of  horses.  But  what  an  odd  livery 
the  coachman  wears !  " 

"  It  is  Mr.  Burleigh's.  The  Justice  he  is  called 
here.  And  he  now,  —  he  thinks  it  is  well  there 
should  be  a  place  like  this  to  send  to  for  gro- 
ceries or  a  surgeon.  But  otherwise  he  is  of 
opinion  that  this  town  is  a  nuisance,  as  all  towns 
are,  except  the  county  town  and.  London,  —  mere 
harbors  for  insolence,  and  poachers,  and  radicals! 
Ah,  here  are  two  other  witnesses  coming  towards 
us.  One  of  them,  the  man  in  gray,  is  from  the 
poor-house.  And  I  suppose  the  other  is  some- 
body in  his  charge.  So,  Thomas,  you  are  out 
of  the  house  on  leave  this  evening.  How  is  this 
place  now  to  live  in?" 

"  Well  enough,  if  it  were  not  for  the  Master, 
who  is  so  strict,  and  the  Guardians,  who  want 
us  to  die  faster  than  we  do.  So  Scowley  says. 
Though  they  *have  not  said  any  thing  to  me 
about  it  yet.  And  Scowley  does  not  always  tell 
the  truth.  However,  I  think  myself,  that,  if  we 
have  to  go  to  church  on  Good  Friday,  we  ought 
to  have  tea  and  sugar  allowed  us,  the  same  as 
on  Christmas  day.  But  we  have  not." 


THORPE, 

t 

"  Well,  that  is  not  fair.  Who  is  this  with  you  ? 
O,  you  say  his  name  is  Potts.  Well,  Mr.  Potts, 
what  kind  of  a  place  do  you  find  this  town  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ah  !  A  place,  sir,  is  it  ?  Ay,  it  is  a  place, 
I  believe.  So  I  have  been  told.  A  place!" 

"There,  that  is  all.  Good  evening!  Poor  fel- 
ilows  !  O,  there  out  at  his  gate  comes  Dr. 
Scoresby.  But  he  is  not  coming  this  way.  How- 
ever, I  know  what  is  his  opinion  of  the  town. 
He  thinks  that  this  is  a  very  respectable  place; 
but  that  the  people  in  it  neither  marry  nor  die, 
nor  want  children  baptized,  as  frequently  as  they 
do  in  other  parishes.  You  will  soon  get  to  know 
him.  He  is  a  kind  man  and  rather  wealthy. 
O,  here  is  Nurse  Privet.  Well,  Nurse,  how  do 
you  do?  And  just  now  how  do  you  find  this 
place  to  live  in?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  it  is  a  very  hard  place  to  live 
in,  for  a  woman  like  me,  who  has  got  to  get 
her  living  " 

"  By  other  people's  dying." 

"  No,  master  John,  I  do  not  live  that  way,  at 
least  not  altogether.  For  I  nurse  ladies  as  well 
as  gentlemen." 

"  And  babies  too." 

"  Well,  so  I  do.  But  would  you  believe  it  ? 
Just  now  there  is  not  any  body  in  all  the  parish 


A    TALE.  11 

that  is  likely  to  want  me.  Every  body  is  so 
well ;  unless  it  may  be  this  gentleman  here.  Ah, 
I  know  by  his  cheek.  I  know  the  signs.  Please, 
sir,  if  you  should  want  " 

"  Stop,  you  harpy.  You  will  frighten  him,  and 
have  him  drop.  Hands  off!  Not  a  word!  He 
is  not  going  to  die.  He  is  not  going  to  be  ill. 
He  is  going  to  eat  bacon  and  beef  and  be  well. 
It  is  what  he  is  coma%  here  for.  And,  Nurse,  if 
you  will  go  down  to  the  Dell  to-morrow,  I  think 
there  will  be  something  waiting  for  you.  Good 
night!  And  now  here  is  Captain  Jex.  A  fine 
evening,  Captain!" 

"  It  might  be,  Mr.  West,  if  it  were  not  so  cold 
and  damp." 

"  I  never  come  here,  Captain,  but  I  like  this 
place  more  and  more.  It  is  so  quiet  and  happy. 
Do  not  you  think  so?" 

"  It  is  well  enough,  considering  that  there  are 
more  women  here  than  men,  and  considering  that 
now  the  rector  Breaches  twice  a  Sunday,  instead 
of  once." 

"  But,  Captain,  it  is  a  good  place  to  live  in." 

"  For  Christians,  that  want  to  work  out  their 
promotion ;  because  Scoresby  says,  the  more  temp- 
tations we  overcome,  the  higher  up  in  heaven 
we  shall  go.  Abundant  temptations  here!  And 


12 


some  of  them  in  Scoresby's  cellar.  But  there 
will  nobody  ever  be  hurt  with  them." 

"  Well,  what  are  the  other  temptations  ?  " 

"  Everywhere  for  every  body,  to  covetousness, 
and  matrimony,  and  drunkenness." 

"  Captain,  I  know  you  never  have  thought  much 
of  this  place.  But  you  are  a  man  of  taste  and 
observation ;  so,  now,  among  the  towns  and  vil- 
lages you  have  seen,  wh^t  place  is  there  that 
you  like  best  of  all  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  Mr.  West,  there  is  one  place  that 
I  know,  and  that  I  call  decent.  It  is  in  Spain, 
close  by  Saragossa,  on  the  Ebro.  Ah,  if  I  had 
stayed  there  I  should  have  been  made  Alcalde 
of  the  town.  I  should  have  been  a  member  of 
the  Cortes.  I  am  sure  I  should  have  been.  They 
are  a  fine,  sensible  people  there.  I  should  like 
to  tell  you  some  time  what  I  did  at  that  village, 
when  I  was  stationed  there  during  the  war,  under 
Wellington.  I  will  tell  you  the  next  time  I  see 
you.  But  I  must  go  now.  This  wretched  weather 
does  not  suit  me.  Good  night !  " 

"  And  now,  Martin  May,  if  you  think  that  any 
night  of  his  wishing  can  be  good  you  are  mis- 
taken. A  surly,  conceited  man  !  A  sword  always 
of  bad  metal,  and  now  gone  rusty !  Does  not 
he  seem  to  draw  the  dark  after  him  as  he  walks 
away  ?  " 


A    TALE.  13 

"Who,  what?  The  old  sword?  But,  West, 
why  do  you  call  these  steps  the  Cross?" 

"  Because  on  the  top  here  the  pillar  is  part  of 
what  was  a  cross.  The  arms  of  the  cross  were 
broken  off,  I  suppose,  at  the  Reformation.  It  was 
erected  here,  some  five  or  six  hundred  years  ago, 
to  commemorate  some  event,  —  something  of 
struggle  that  ended  in  victory  or  resignation,  when 
Edward  the  First  was  king." 

While  these  young  men  were  talking  on  the 
steps  of  the  cross,  the  sun  had  set.  And  over 
all  things  it  was  twilight,  deepening  and  deepen- 
ing every  minute,  and  reaching  in  through  every 
window,  and  into  every  recess,  as  well  as  wide 
over  the  fields  and  into  the  woods.  And  like  the 
twilight  in  an  evening  is  Divine  Providence.  The 
Godhead  spreads  itself  through  human  life,  a 
silent  influence  on  the  souls  of  men,  to  inspire 
them  with  thought,  or  restrain  them  in  power,  or 
soothe  them  with  peace ;  and  it  penetrates  all  ac- 
tions, and  makes  them,  each  one,  turn  to  what  is 
divine,  either  in  reward  or  punishment.  And  even 
as  the  deepening  twilight  reaches  higher  and  higher 
up  the  skies,  till  at  last  the  stars  shine  down  it, 
so  it  is  with  the  belief  in  Providence.  And  the 
more  intensely  it  is  seen  to  pervade  the  present 
with  its  power,  the  more  certainly  it  is  felt  to 


THORPE, 


connect  us  with  the  future  by  its  purposes.  Like 
the  stars,  they  are  visible  only  from  afar,  yet 
through  Christ  they  are  so  distinctly  plain,  —  the 
purposes  of  God  toward  us.  And  these,  —  how 
they  enlighten,  and  draw,  and  sanctify  us  men, 
amid  bewildered  thoughts,  in  which  we  might  be 
lost  so  easily,  —  and  amid  temptations,  for  which 
of  themselves  our  own  hearts  would  be  too  weak, 
—  and  amid  that  darkness  of  the  grave,  which 
sometimes  clings  about  those  who  have  wept  for 
the  dead  too  despondent  tears. 


A    TALE. 


15 


II 


ONE  evening  there  was  a  young  girl  called  on 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  the  housekeeper  at  the  Par- 
sonage, and  sat  with  her  in  the  kitchen.  It  was 
truly  an  English  kitchen,  —  large,  clean,  comforta- 
ble, and  queer.  By  the  fireplace,  and  over  it,  there 
were  old  things  of  brass,  copper,  and  steel,  which 
never  had  been,  and  never  would  be,  used.  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite  had  polished  them  many  years,  and 
so  had  her  mother  before  her.  And  her  grand- 
mother, who  had  first  owned  them,  had  always 
thought  them  much  too  good  and  new  for  use  in 
her  time.  And  now  it  had  become  doubtful  for 
what  purpose  some  of  the  articles  had  ever  been 
meant.  Against  the  wall  stood  a  great,  square 
piece  of  furniture,  of  black  oak,  full  of  drawers,  and 
called  a  dresser.  Over  the  dresser  were  a  set  of 
shelves,  on  which  rested  a  few  books,  and  three 
dozen  pewter  plates  and  dishes.  The  pewter  was 


16 


THORPE, 


more  than  eighty  years  old ;  yet  none  of  it  had 
ever  been  used.  The  plates  stood  on  their  edges, 
and  shone  on  the  upper  shelves.  And  on  the  low- 
er shelves  the  books  were  laid.  Among  which 
were  Pilgrim's  Progress,  George  Herbert's  Poems, 
Fuller's  Holy  War,  Baxter's  Saint's  Rest,  Fox's 
Book  of  Martyrs,  Tusser's  Hundred  Points  of 
Good  Husbandry,  and  Quarles's  Emblems. 

"  Well,  Sarah,"  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  "  I  am 
sorry  you  are  going,  because  I  shall  miss  you  in  an 
evening  some  time;  and  I  shall  not  see  you  at  your 
mother's.  But  it  will  be  all  for  your  good,  I  am 
sure.  I  am  glad  of  the  good  place  you  are  going  to. 
It  will  feel  hard  at  first,  —  going  from  home.  But 
do  not  think  so,  and  then  you  will  not  find  it  so. 
To  go  to  service  is  for  a  girl  like  going  to  college. 
It  is  the  way  to  learn.  And  I  have  heard  the 
minister  say  that  in  old  times  even  lords  used  to 
be  glad  if  other  great  lords  would  have  their  sons 
for  waiters." 

"  I  want  to  see  and  learn  more  than  I  can 
at  home,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite." 

"  Right,  Sarah,  and  now  is  your  time,  as  I  have 
told  you  before.  And  girl,  you  will  never  com- 
mand, if  you  do  not  first  learn  to  serve.  And 
you  will  never  learn,  without  you  have  your  bet- 
ters to  teach  you.  With  a  good  mistress,  in  a 


A    TALE.  17 

year  you  will  get  good  habits  for  life.  It  will 
be  your  making  for  ever, — a  place  at  a  good 
house.  I  do  not  mean  at  a  large  house,  with 
fashionable  people :  but  I  mean  at  a  house  where 
there  are  good  ways  from  morning  to  night, — 
where  the  mistress  knows  what  good  work  is,. 
and  how  to  have  it  done,  and  knows  how  to  speak 
to  a  servant  and  advise  her  and  cheer  her,  —  and 
where  the  master  is  a  right-minded  man,  whom 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  serve.  For,  Sarah,  it  is  both 
pleasanter  and  easier  to  serve  some  strict  mas- 
ters, than  it  is  some  slovenly  men,  who  are  satis* 
fied,  perhaps,  with  any  thing.  The  lightest  work 
is  not  always  the  best  service,  nor  the  easiest; 
mind  that.  Hard  work  goes  easier  in  one  house 
than  no  work  at  all  does  in  another.  But  see 
here.  I  have  got  something  for  you.  It  is  a 
present  from  the  minister." 

"O,  how  obliged  to  him  I  am!  Such  a  beau- 
tiful box !  And  it  is  full  of  things,  —  scissors, 
bodkins,  pins,  needles.  And,  O,  what  a  curi- 
ous thing  this  is!  O,  how  very  much  obliged 
I  am !  I  am  sure,  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank 
the  minister  as  I  ought." 

"  Well,  well,  Sarah,  I  will  tell  him  how  you  feel. 
Mind  and  make  a  good  use  of  the  box.  And 
always,  when  you  look  at  it,  remember  this, — 
2 


18  THORPE, 

a  stitch  in  time  saves  nine.  Perhaps  a  less  box 
would  have  been  handier  for  you.  But  that  did 
not  occur  to  the  minister,  I  dare  say.  For, 
as  the  proverb  says,  the  greatest  clerks  are  not 
always  the  wisest  men,  —  not  in  every  thing,  at 
least.  As  how  should  they  be?  You  will  write 
soon,  Sarah,  and  let  us  know  how  you  are." 

"  O,  yes,  ma'am !  I  shall  write  the  very  day 
after  I  get  to  London.  And  very  often  I  shall 
write.  For  I  shall  want  to  say  so  much  of  the 
new  things  I  shall  see,  the  fresh  ways  and  people. 
It  is  said,  there  are  such  sights  to  see.  Such 
shops  and  churches,  and  such  crowds  in  the 
streets !  But  I  shall  often  want  to  be  out  of  it 
all  and  be  at  home." 

"  And  as  long  as  you  want  that,  it  will  be  all 
right  with  you.  But  perhaps  you  will  not  always 
feel  as  though  home  were  the  only  thing  you 
wanted.  You  will  see  bonnets  and  gowns,  and 
shawls  and  ribbons  and  rings,  that  you  will  like, 
and  you  will  see  places  you  may  like  to  go  to, 
and  companions  you  may  like  to  go  with,  and  new 
ways  you  may  like  to  take  to.  But  have  a  care. 
Things  will  all  be  so  strange  to  you,  that  you  will 
think  and  feel  nothing  right,  at  first.  And  so  for 
a  while  beware  of  doing  any  thing  at  all  but  your 
plain  duty.  Believe  yourself  foolish  for  the  first 


A    TALE.  19 

six  months,  and  you  will  easily  be  wise  after- 
wards." 

Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  paused,  and  then,  look- 
ing intently  before  her,  she  continued,  "  Many  go 
out  for  wool  that  come  home  shorn  themselves. 
The  road  is  well  enough  kept,  that  is  rid  of  bad 
company.  A  wicked  companion  is  an  invitation 
to  hell.  Pride  will  have  a  fall.  Buy  one  fine 
thing,  and  you  must  buy  ten  to  look  all  of  a 
piece.  Better  go  to  heaven  in  rags  than  to  hell 
with  ornaments.  Out  of  debt,  out  of  danger.  All 
is  fine  that  is  fit.  Now,  Sarah,  you  will  re- 
member." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  do  not  be  afraid  of  work.  Feather  by 
feather  the  goose  is  picked.  Every  thing  has 
got  to  be  done  by  somebody.  I  mistress,  and 
you  miss,  who  is  to  sweep  the  house?  Think 
how  well  you  can  do  your  work,  and  not  how 
easily.  She  that  will  thrive  must  rise  at  five; 
remember  that ;  she  that  hath  thriven  may  lie 
till  seven.  On  with  your  work  early,  so  that 
your  mistress  may  come  down  and  begin  hers 
without  waiting.  What,  keep  a  dog  and  bark  my- 
self! Never  let  your  mistress  have  to  say  that." 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  More   nice   than    wise ;    never   be    that.      No 


20 


THORPE, 


sweet  without  sweat,  without  pains  no  gains, 
—  mind  that." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Take  care  of  your  money.  A  penny  saved 
is  twopence  got.  A  pin  a  day  is  a  groat  a 
year.  Mind  your  temper.  The  least  said,  the 
soonest  mended.  Virtue  itself  without  good 
manners  is  laughed  at.  An  ounce  of  discretion 
is  worth  a  pound  of  wit.  An  ant  may  work 
his  heart  out,  and  never  make  honey.  You  may 
even  say  your  prayers  out  of  time,  and  there  is 
reason  in  roasting  of  eggs." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite." 

"  Take  care  of  your  character.  For  it  will  not 
take  care  of  itself,  if  it  is  ever  so  good.  Indeed, 
the  better  it  is,  the  more  care  it  will  need. 
Dirt  is  dirtiest  on  clean  white  linen.  Make 
yourself  all  honey,  and  the  flies  will  eat  you  up. 
Forewarned,  forearmed." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Tell  me,  Sarah,  is  there  any  news  at  your 
end  of  the  town  ?  " 

"  Yesterday,  Mr.  Coke  came  to  Mrs.  Gentle's 
again.  And  Jane  Bates  says  the  gentleman  could 
hardly  get  out  of  the  carriage  into  the  house,  he  is 
so  ill.  And  there  is  an  American  come  to  the 
Dell  to  stay.  He  is  quite  a  gentleman,  though 


A    TALE.  21 

they  say  he  has  lived  in  the  same  town  with 
black  men,  and  been  like  a  gipsy  along  with 
wild  Indians  in  the  woods.  But  you  would  not 
think  so,  to  see  him.  They  say  he  is  very  clever, 
and  knows  about  every  thing.  And  well  he  may ; 
for  he  asks  about  every  thing  from  every  body, 
no  matter  who.  One  day,  he  talked  an  hour 
with  a  scissors-grinder,  out  in  the  open  road,  and 
then  asked  him  how  much  he  charged  an  hour 
for  talking,  and  so  gave  him  a  shilling." 

"  Quite  the  gentleman,  is  he  ?  Then  I  saw 
him  at  chapel,  last  Sunday  afternoon,  up  stairs, 
in  a  corner  of  the  gallery." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  he  is  so  clever.  He  has  been 
learning  all  about  the  old  church,  and  been  read- 
ing in  the  register  along  with  the  clerk  for  hours  to- 
gether. And  he  told  Squire  Horrocks  the  name 
of  his  great-grandfather,  which  the  Squire  said 
he  had  never  heard  himself.  And  he  told,  be- 
sides, what  ought  to  be  the  name  on  that  fine 
marble  monument  in  the  church,  that  is  broken 
at  the  top ;  and  which  the  clerk  said  nobody  ever 
had  told  before  that  he  had  ever  known  of." 

• 

"  What  is  he  going  to  do  here ;  do  you  know  ?  " 
"  People  say  that  Dr.  Blinkhorn  thinks  he  may 
be  going  to  write  a  book.     But  Bessie,  at  the  Dell, 
says  he  is  come  here  for  the  country  air  to  do  him 


THORPE, 

good;  because  all  the  Americans  belonged  here 
once.  And  she  says  the  doctor  has  told  him  that 
he  will  die,  if  he  does  not  give  over  talking  so 
much.  And  so  now  he  is  not  to  speak  to  hardly 
any  body,  all  the  summer." 

"  And  now,  Sarah,  do  not  you  forget  what  I 
have  been  saying.  Ah,  well !  we  may  give  good 
advice,  but  we  cannot  give  conduct.  But  God 
will,  if  you  ask  him.  I  wish  it  was  not  London 
you  are  going  to.  However,  a  good  mistress  is 
a  good  place.  And  the  city  is  well  enough,  if 
you  have  a  place  in  it  that  is  good.  Do  not 
forget  your  prayers,  morning  and  night.  Begin 
the  day  with  God,  and  you  will  begin  it  well. 
Every  night,  pray  over  all  your  actions  of  the 
day.  Pray  God  to  bless  whatever  you  have  done 
right,  and  to  mend  yourself  and  what  you  have 
done  wrong.  Open  all  your  thoughts  to  him,  if 
possible  more  even  than  you  would  to  your  moth- 
er, and  ask  him  to  pardon  and  pity  and  mend 
and  sanctify  you.  And  he  will.  I  shall  often 
think  of  you,  Sarah.  There,  now  do  not  cry. 
And  you  will  remember  what  I  have  said;  will 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will.  You  are  very  good  to  me,  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite,  very  kind." 

"  And   so   will  every  body  be,  every  body  that 


A    TALE.  23 

is  good.  And  from  nobody  else  do  you  want  a 
favor.  For  the  Bible  says  very  truly,  that  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel.  I  am 
told  that  London  is  a  very  wicked  city.  And 
so  it  must  be,  because  it  is  such  a  large  place. 
Look  where  you  will,  there  is  sin  for  your  eyes 
to  fix  on.  There  is  a  temptation  to  extrava- 
gance in  every  shop-window,  the  milliner's,  the 
draper's,  the  jeweller's.  Speak  who  will  to  you, 
it  may  be  somebody  that  means  you  harm. 
And  you  may  lay  hold  of  a  new  companion's 
arm,  only  to  be  led  straight  into  a  pitfall.  Traps 
and  pitfalls  everywhere  about ! " 

Sarah  turned  pale,  clasped  her  hands,  and  cried, 
"  O,  how  am  I  to  know  them  ?  O  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite,  why  did  'not  you  tell  me  of  this  before  ? 
I  must  not  go.  I  cannot  go.  Indeed  I  cannot.  I 
will  tell  my  father  that  I  cannot,  I  must  not " 

"  Sarah,  you  do  not  want  to  know  any  thing 
more  than  you  do.  A  girl  like  you  may  walk 
to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  never  know  harm 
or  know  of  it.  Now  do  not  be  flattered  at  that ; 
or  if  you  are,  you  are  not  the  girl  I  think.  For 
I  do  not  mean  that  of  yourself  you  are  safe ;  but 
what  I  mean  is,  that  the  grace  of  God  is  safety 
for  you  to  walk  in.  And  I  think  you  have  it. 
But  do  not  be  too  sure  of  it,  yourself,  or  that 
instant  you  will  lose  it." 


24  THORPE, 

"  You  think,  then,  I  may  go  ?  I  am  afraid,  if 
I  do,  I  may  be  tempting  Providence.  I  am  but 
a  poor,  foolish  creature  very  often.  And  I  am 
young  and  inexperienced,  you  know." 

"  Well,  so  you  are.  But  whether  you  see  dan- 
ger or  not  will  never  matter.  For  you  will  never 
be  in  it,  if  only  you  keep  looking  at  God.  Walk 
with  God  ;  and  bad  persons  will  not  speak  to 
you,  and  indeed  will  hardly  wish  to.  For  there 
is  a  kind  of  innocence  that  is  like  a  robe  of  pro- 
tection ;  and  you  may  walk  in  it.  on  the  way  of 
duty,  and  always  be  safe,  —  through  traitors,  and 
never  know  of  them,  —  past  pitfalls,  and  never 
see  them,  —  through  the  fires  of  Baal,  and  never 
feel  them,  —  and  past  the  place  where  pleasure 
sits  and  sings,  and  never  hear  her,  to  mind  her. 
Only,  Sarah,  keep  your  heart  right  with  God,  and 
then  of  themselves  all  things  will  be  right  with 
you." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  advising 
me ;  and  I  am  sure,  ma'am,  I  hope " 

Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  extended  her  forefin- 
ger and  said,  "  Good  words  cost  nothing,  but 
they  are  worth  much.  It  is  said,  an  idle  brain 
is  the  Devil's  workshop.  So  always  have  some- 
thing good  to  think  of,  —  a  text,  a  hymn,  or 
something  you  have  learned  at  school  here.  And 


A    TALE. 


25 


then  away  goes  the  Devil,  when  he  finds  the  door 
shut." 

"  Yes  ma'am." 

"  Put  your  finger  in  the  fire,  and  say  it  was 
your  fortune ;  never  do  that.  Pray  never  to  be 
led  into  temptation,  and  then  walk  into  it  of 
yourself;  do  not  do  that.  You  gazed  at  the 
moon,  and  fell  in  the  gutter;  never  let  that  be 
said  of  you." 

Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite's  tone  changed  from 
the  authoritative  to  the  womanly,  and  she  said, 
"  You  are  leaving  a  happy  home,  Sarah,  a  good 
father  and  a  dear  mother,  and  a  place  where 
you  have  had  many,  many  joys.  And  you  will 
often  think  of  them.  And  because  of  your  be- 
ginning life  from  a  happy  home,  it  will  last  you 
in  courage  for  years.  And  wherever  you  are, 
I  have  no  doubt  you  will  seem  to  hear,  often 
and  often,  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and  your  father 
praying,  and  your  mother  reading,  and  the  girls 
screaming  merrily,  as  they  come  home  from 
school.  And  with  hearing  the  dear  old  sounds, 
you  will  be  yourself,  and  keep  so,  I  hope.  Well, 
now,  Sarah,  good  by.  God  bless  you!  And 
mind  this,  —  to  begin  well  is  good,  but  to  end 
well  is  better.  Now  do  not  look  back.  It  is 
all  nonsense,  I  know.  But  yet  I  shall  throw  the 
old  shoe  after  you,  for  good  luck.  Good  by." 


26  THORPE, 


III. 

DURING  the  time  of  the  preceding  conversation 
the  minister  was  up  stairs  in  his  library,  a  long, 
low  room  full  of  books.  He  was  a  man  of  a 
mild,  expressive  countenance,  lively  manners,  and 
musical  voice.  Notwithstanding  his  gentle  look, 
and  that  peculiar  air  which  grows  upon  a  per- 
son from  the  silent  company  of  books,  there  was 
in  him  great  courage,  decision,  and  energy,  as  he 
had  several  times  shown  upon  public  occasions. 
Like  the  four  spirits,  of  whom  Homer  was  one, 
and  whom  Dante  saw,  he  was  of  semblance 
neither  sorrowful  nor  glad.  For  nearly  twenty 
years  had  he  been  a  minister  at  Thorpe,  and, 
like  the  Oxford  clerk  of  whom  Chaucer  wrote, — 

"  Sounding  in  moral  virtue  was  his  speech, 
And  gladly  would  he  learn,  and  gladly  teach." 

All  day   had  he  been  reading   and  writing;  and 
now,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  he  rose  from 


A    TALE.  27 

his  books,  and  went  to  a  window.  And  as  he 
stood  at  it,  there  came  to  him  sounds  from  out  of 
the  town.  And  they  occasioned  in  him  thoughts 
perhaps  of  the  loneliness  of  his  own  life,  and 
perhaps  of  the  evanescence  of  all  life,  and  its 
being  merely  a  sound,  that  dies  with  the  mak- 
ing. And  perhaps  his  thoughts  were  of  his  ever- 
varying  success  among  his  people,  in  his  endeav- 
or to  walk  among  them,  and  guide  them  all 
aright.  He  sighed.  And  then  he  opened  a  vol- 
ume, which  lay  upon  a  desk  near  the  window. 
And  half  smiling,  half  sighing,  he  read  from  a 
discourse  by  Martin  Luther :  —  "I  myself  do  of- 
ten feel  the  raging  of  the  Devil  within  me.  At 
times  I  believe ;  at  times  I  believe  not.  At  times 
I  am  merry ;  at  times  I  am  sad.  Yet  do  I  see 
that  it  happeneth  not  as  the  evil  multitude  wish, 
who  would  not  give  so  much  as  a  penny  for 
preaching,  baptism,  and  sacrament." 

Then  he  returned  to  the  window,  and  saw  that 
the  sun  had  gone  quite  down  behind  the  win- 
dow. And  there  came  on  the  twilight  of  an 
August  evening.  And  his  soul  grew  calm  with 
it;  and  it  felt  religious  to  him.  And  he  said  to 
himself,  "  Never,  never  do  great  thoughts  come 
to  a  man  while  he  is  discontented  or  fretful. 
There  must  be  quiet  in  the  temple  of  his  soul, 


28  THORPE, 

before  the  windows  of  it  will  open  for  him  to  see 
out  of  them  •  into  the  infinite.  Quiet  ^s  what 
heavenly  powers  move  in.  It  is  in  silence  the 
stars  move  on;  and  it  is  in  quiet  our  souls  are 
visited  from  on  high." 


A    TALE.  29 


IV. 


THE  minister  had  been  to  Marley,  and  was 
returning  home  by  the  road  across  the  meadows, 
and  by  the  river-side.  But  he  found  Martin  May 
fishing  just  at  that  point  where  the  river  makes 
a  bend,  and  incloses  the  wood  in  the  angle  it 
makes.  "  Ah,  Mr.  May,"  said  he,  "  are  you  a 
fisherman  ?  I  should  hardly  have  thought  you 
had  been.  You  have  come  out  for  your  supper, 
I  suppose.  Are  you  catching  it?" 

"  Will  you  sit  down,  and  rest  yourself?  Here, 
under  this  beech-tree,  in  this  dry  moss,  and  be- 
tween these  two  roots,  there  is  an  arm-chair. 
As  to  my  supper,  I  am  very  unlikely  to  catch 
it.  Nor  indeed  is  it  what  I  have  come  for.  Rod 
in  hand,  and  with  a  basket,  I  have  strolled  by 
the  water-side  to  this  spot,  thinking  I  might  en- 
ter into  the  feelings  of  Isaac  Walton,  and  per- 
haps have  a  talk  with  him  in  this  sweet,  quiet 
retreat." 


30  THORPE, 

"Ah,  let  me  see!  Yes,  this  is  the  book, —  The 
Complete  Angler,  or  the  Contemplative  Man's 
Recreation.  Dear,  dear  old  man!  I  could  call 
him  a  saint.  And  if  I  do  not,  it  is  .because  I 
love  him  so  much.  A  saint !  No,  he  is  not. 
He  is  not  of  the  class  of  St.  Benedict,  who  had 
the  Devil  come  to  him,  in  the  shape  of  a^Jittle 
black-bird,  and  who  then  rolled  himself  in  briers 
and  nettles  till  he  was  covered  with  blood;  nor 
of  the  class  of  St.  Blaze,  who  scourged  himself 
so  thoroughly  that  seven  holy  women  anointed 
themselves  with  his  blood;  nor  of  the  class  of 
St.  Hilary,  who  obtained  his  wife's  death  by 
his  prayers ;  nor  of  the  class  of  St.  Simeon,  who 
eat  only  once  a  week,  and  even  so  was  not 
wretched  enough ;  nor  of  the  class  of  St.  Martin, 
who  turned  hermit,  and  lived  on  roots  and  wild 
herbs ;  nor  of  the  class  of  St.  David,  who  proved 
Pelagius  to  be  an  infernal  monster  by  eloquence 
and  miracles ;  nor  of  the  class  of  St.  William, 
who  always  wore  a  hair  shirt,  and  never  eat 
flesh-meat.  No  saint  of  any  recognized  class 
was  Isaac  Walton.  But  it  may  be  said  cer- 
tainly that  he  was  the  most  saintly  of  all  who 
have  taken  the  way  to  heaven,  with  the  Bible 
in  one  hand,  and  a  fishing-rod  in  the  other." 

"  Was  not  there,  sir,  a  St.  Anthony  who  preached 
to  the  fishes?" 


A    TALE.  dl 

"  Yes :  and  I  have  his  sermon  at  home.  The 
fish  are  addressed  as  dearly  beloved  fish.  And 
at  the  end  of  the  discourse  they  are  said  to 
have  bowed  to  the  saint,  with  profound  humility, 
and  a  grave  and  religious  countenance." 

"  Nor  was  Walton,  with  his  hooks  and  flies, 
of  the  class  of  St.  Anthony." 

"  St.  Anthony  never  washed  himself,  and  never 
changed  his  clothes.  Two  things  were  his  es- 
pecial abominations,  cleanliness  and  Arianism. 
And  very  often  it  is  said,  that  the  Devil  would 
haunt  him  and  terrify  him  and  confuse  his  in- 
tellects. More  in  the  manner  of  Walton  might 
have  been  Samuel  Gardiner,  who  published  a 
work  on  the  Fishermen  of  Both  Natures,  Tem- 
poral and  Spiritual,  —  a  quaint,  ingenious  piece." 

"  Do  you  remember  any  thing  of  it,  sir  ? " 

"  Only  a  little,  Mr.  May,  and  that  not  very 
correctly.  Every  fisherman  has  his  baits,  accord- 
ing to  the  fishes  he  angles  for.  For  at  a  bare 
hook  no  fish  will  bite.  And  he  who  does  not 
fish  with  a  right  bait  shall  never  do  any  good. 
We  that  are  spiritual  fishermen  have  our  differ- 
ent baits,  suitable  to  the  stomachs  of  those  we 
angle  for.  And  if  we  do  not  observe  the  char- 
acters of  our  auditors,  and  fit  ourselves  to  them, 
we  shall  not  do  wisely.  Let  such  as  will  not 
be  led  by  love,  be  drawn  by  fear." 


32  THORPE 


"  Of  what  date  is  your  quotation,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  is  of  about  the  year  sixteen  hundred. 
The  fisherman  baits  his  hook,  not  only  that 
the  fish  may  take  it,  but  be  taken  by  it.  The 
red-worm,  the  case-worm,  the  maggot-fly,  and  the 
small  roach  are  glorious  in  outward  appearance 
to  the  fish.  And  so  the  riches  and  the  prece- 
dence of  the  world  are  but  pleasant  baits  laid 
out  for  our  destruction.  The  fisherman's  bait  is 
for  a  deadly  deceit;  so  are  all  the  pleasures  of 
the  world.  As  all  the  waters  of  the  rivers  run 
into  the  salt  sea,  so  all  worldly  delights  finish 
their  course  in  the  salt  sea  of  sorrow." 

"  And  so  do  most  of  our  purer  pleasures, 
too,"  said  Martin  May,  with  some  sorrow  in  his 
tone. 

"  No ;  it  is  not  so.  We  do  not  find  it  so,  Mr. 
May.  And  therefore  do  not  let  us  say  we  do. 
In  our  journey  through  life,  we  come  upon  a 
fountain  of  holy  delight,  and  the  stream  from  it 
we  follow,  day  by  day,  and  year  after  year.  And 
perhaps  then  it  vanishes,  and  leaves  us  to  walk 
a  dry  and  dusty  and  unlovely  road.  But  that 
sweet  stream,  —  is  it  lost  in  the  salt  sea  of  sor- 
row, along  with  the  river  of  ambition  sfnd  the 
muddy  torrents  of  sensuality  ?  O,  no  !  It  has 
not  ended  in  the  salt  sea  of  sorrow,  nor  ever 


A    TALE. 


33 


reached  it.  It  has  disappeared  with  perhaps  the 
heat  of  the  day  in  summer.  And  so  not  into 
the  sea  of  hopeless  sorrow,  but  into  the  sky  it 
has  gone..  And  if  we  are  watchful,  it  will  hold 
for  us  there  the  rainbow  of  heavenly  promise." 

There  was  a  pause ;  for  over  the  mind  of  Mar- 
tin May  these  words  had  gone  like  spring-water, 
cooling,  and  refreshing,  and  brightening.  And 
just  now,  from  out  of  the  depths  of  his  memory, 
there  were  things  glancing  up  at  him  that  were 
lost  indeed,  but  that  looked  up  at  him,  beautiful 
and  sweet,  though  very  solemn. 

The  minister  continued,  "  Worldly  pleasures 
have  in  them  nothing  of  immortality.  And  when 
they  cease,  earthly  in  themselves,  they  are  altogeth- 
er earthly  to  think  of.  And  to  remember,  they  are 
only  memorials  of  the  earth  they  belong  to,  and 
towards  which  they  have  been  drawing  us  our- 
selves. But  the  sweet  delights  which  God  gives 
and  which  he  takes  away,  —  to  look  after  them, 
we  have  to  look  up  on  high ;  and  they  draw  up 
to  them  our  hopes  and  faith.  And  though  it  be 
from  far  distances,  yet  smile  upon  us -they  do, — 
the  forms  of  vanished  good,  and  the  dear,  sweet 
faces  we  have  known." 

Again  there  was  a  space  of  silence,  and  then 
Martin  May  said,  "  That  bird,  that  little  brown 
s 


34  THORPE, 

bird,  that  is  in  and  out  of  the  hawthorn-bush  so 
quick,  —  do  you  see  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  wren." 

"  O,  then  it  is  the  bird  of  which  I  ^overheard 
one  child  speaking  to  another,  this  morning:  — 

'The  robin  and  the  wren 
Are  God  Almighty's  cock  and  hen; 
The  martin  and  the  swallow 
Are  God  Almighty's  bow  and  arrow.' 

And  the  swallow  is  as  swift  as  an  arrow,  almost. 
And  sometimes  the  martin  does  bend  his  flight 
like  a  bow." 

"  Those  lines,"  said  the  minister,  "  those  lines 
were  a  part  of  my  religion,  when  I  was  a  boy, — 
and  a  very  wholesome,  useful,  happy  part.  In 
winter,  the  robin  is  always  about  the  house, 
and  often  close  by  the  door.  And  I  remember 
well  the  feelings  I  used  to  have  for  it  of  tender- 
ness and  awe." 

"  Is  there  any  of  that  feeling  now,  do  you  think, 
among  children  ?  " 

"  O,  certainly.  In  all  this  parish,  probably  there 
is  not  a  boy,  and  I  am  very  certain  not  a  girl, 
who  would  hurt  a  robin  or  disturb  its  nest." 

"  Hush!  what  bird  is  that?  It  is  like  a  cuckoo 
that  stammers.  A  month  ago,  I  saw  a  young 
cuckoo  in  the  nest  of  a  hedge-sparrow,  and  though 


A    TALE.  35 

only  half-fledged,  it  was  larger  than  the  nest 
of  its  foster-parents.  But  there  again  !  That 
hoarse  stammering  imitation,  —  can  that  be  the 
cry  of  a  cuckoo  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  way  the  bird  ends  the  sea- 
son. Though  in  the  spring  it  comes  with  tones 
so  clear  and  almost  human. 

'In  April,  the  cuckoo  shows  his  bill, 
In  May,  he  sings  both  night  and  day, 
In  June,  he  alters  his  tune, 
v  In  July,  away  he  will  fly, 

In  August,  go  he  must.' " 

"  In  April  he  comes,  about  what  time  ? " 
"  In  some  parts  of  the  country,  the  day  after 
Swallow-day  is  known  as  Cuckoo-day.  And 
Swallow-day  is  on  the  fifteenth  of  April.  But 
the  birds  of  passage  do  not  arrive  quite  punctu- 
ally, but  a  little  earlier  or  later,  according  as  the 
season  is.  But  I  believe  that  they  come  after 
one  another  in  an  order  that  is  regular,  —  the 
swallow,  and  then  the  black-cap,  and  then  the 
martin,  and  then  the  cuckoo,  and  then  the  fly- 
catcher. And  fully  a  month  later  than  the  swal- 
low comes  the  swift." 

"  The  nightingale,  —  when  does  that  come  ? 
But  indeed  I  have  never  heard  it  yet,  —  not 
once." 


36 


THORPE, 


"  It  comes  in  April,  when  it  does  come  here ; 
which  it  does  not  do  always  nor  often. 

'  Sweet  jug,  jug,  jug, 
The  nightingale  doth  sing 
From  morning  until  evening 
As  they  are  haymaking.' 

That  is  a  verse  of  an  old  ballad." 

"  And  they  leave  at  regular  times,  —  these  mi- 
gratory birds  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  at  regular  times  come  their  suc- 
cessors in  their  places,  for  the  winter,  —  the  wood- 
cock, the  snipe,  the  fieldfare,  and  many  others, 
especially  one  on  the  eastern  coast,  a  great  gray 
bird,  with  black  wings,  called  the  Danish  crow." 

"  Longest  day,  Shortest  day,  New  Year's  day, 
Midsummer  day,  Swallow  day,  Cuckoo  day, — 
I  like  this  naming  of  the  days.  I  like  to  feel  my 
life,  as  it  goes  forward,  keeping  time  with  the 
great  harmonies  of  nature." 

"  And  of  God.  This  very  month,  among  the 
ancient  Rhodians,  the  children  used  to  go  from 
door  to  door  swallow-singing.  The  first  verse  of 
the  song  was:  — 

'  The  swallow !    The  swallow  is  here, 
With  his  back  so  black,  and  his  belly  so  white; 

He  brings  on  the  pride  of  the  year, 
With  the  gay  months  of  love  and  the  days  of  delight.' 

Another  custom   among  the  Rhodians  was   that 


A    TALE.  37 

of  men  who  went  about  singing  the  song  of  the 
crow,  and  making  a  collection  for  him." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  I  had  not  caught  a  fish 
when  you  came." 

"  And  myself,"  said  the  minister,  "  I  had  rather 
think  of  Isaac  Walton  as  taking  no  more  fish 
than  his  Kenna  actually  needed  for  the  table. 
So  long,  long  ago!  And  one  can  feel  yet  what 
kind  of  a  woman  Kenna  was,  and  what  her  love 
for  Isaac  must  have  been.  A  quiet,  affection- 
ate, reflective  woman,  and  not  without  energy  at 
proper  times,  and  one  who  raised  her  eyes,  every 
now  and  then,  to  Isaac's  honest  face,  with  such 
admiration  and  loyalty.  But  oh !  that  song ! 
What  a  gush  of  sweet  sound  !  It  is  a  thrush. 
There,  on  the  bush  across  the  water.  A  fine 
songster!  Do  not  you  think  so?" 

For  a  while  Martin  May  did  not  answer;  and 
then  he  repeated  the  following  lines  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  a  little :  — 

"There  sat  upon  a  linden-tree 

A  bird,  and  sang  its  strain. 
So  sweet  it  sang,  that,  as  I  heard, 

My  heart  went  back  again. 
It  went  to  one  remembered  spot, 

It  saw  the  rose-trees  grow, 
And  thought  again  the  thoughts  of  love, 

There  cherished  long  ago. 


THORPE 


"A  thousand  years  to  me  it  seems 

Since  by  my  fair  I  sate, 
Yet  thus  to  have  been  a  stranger  long 
Was  not  my  choice,  but  fate. 

Since  then  I  have  not  seen  the  flowers. 

« 
Nor  heard  the  birds'  sweet  song : 

My  joys  have  all  too  briefly  past, 
My  griefs  been  all  too  long." 

And  then,  as  if  afraid  of  any  remark,  he  added 
quickly,  "  What  did  you  call  that  bird  ?  How  it 
does  sing !  What  a  song  of  exultation !  " 

"  It  is  called  the  thrush,  the  missel-thrush,  and 
sometimes  the  storm-cock,  on  account  of  its  sing- 
ing before  and  up  to  the  coming  of  a  storm. 
And  this  bird  now  must  be  singing  against  a 
storm.  For  see  yonder  sheep,  —  how  they  are 
all  drawing  together  towards  the  corner  of  the 
meadow.  Ah,  yes  !  and  this  little  flower,  the 
pimpernel,  —  see,  it  is  shut !  O,  it  will  be  wel- 
come, a  little  rain!  Come,  let  us  go.  We  shall 
just  have  time  enough  to  reach  shelter  probably. 
For  I  am  quite  certain  behind  this  wood  there  is 
a  black  cloud  coming  up.  A  cloud,  Mr.  May,  that 
will  rain  for  us,  —  no,  not  with  our  looking  on; 
but  which  to-morrow  will  be  known  to  have 
rained  out  of  its  black  garb  green  grass,  and 
flowers  blue,  white,  yellow,  red,  and  pink." 


A    TALE.  39 


V. 


THE  next  Sunday  that  Martin  May  attended 
chapel,  after  the  conversation  by  the  river-side,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though,  by  some  agreement, 
the  whole  congregation  had  gone  into  mourning. 
Many  of  the  men  had  scarfs  on  their  shoulders, 
some  of  them  of  black  silk,  and  some  of  them 
of  crape.  On  his  way  to  the  chapel  he  had  no- 
ticed that  several  men,  besides  having  these  scarfs, 
wore,  tied  round  their  hats,  long,  wide  bands, 
which  hung  down  their  backs ;  and  he  had  won- 
dered at  the  meaning  of  these  signs.  Round  the 
pulpit  there  was  hung  drapery  of  black  cloth. 
And  over  all  the  crowded  congregation  there  was 
an  unusual  stillness.  The  minister  had  on  a 
scarf  of  black  silk;  and  when  he  commenced 
the  service  it  was  in  a  voice  of  deep  feeling.  And 
then  Martin  May  remembered  to  have  heard  dur- 
ing the  week  of  the  death  of  a  lady,  a  young 


40  THORPE, 

mother,  who  had  been  widely  beloved  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  been  very  tenderly  dear  at  home. 
He  saw  sitting  in  his  pew  the  young  man  who 
was  evidently  the  widower.  And  at  the  sight 
of  him  he  wept  helplessly ;  for  there  came  over 
himself  so  wretchedly  the  sense  of  loneliness. 

In  his  sermon  the  minister  spoke  of  God  and 
the  earth,  —  how  the  earth  may  be  our  birthplace, 
but  how  heaven  is  our  home,  —  and  how  from 
on  high  God  reaches  down  among  men  to  draw 
up  to  himself  prayers,  and  love,  and  souls.  He 
spoke  of  true  affection  as  never  ceasing,  —  elicited, 
perhaps,  with  a  glance  or  a  word,  but  outlasting 
the  death  of  its  object  and  the  slow  lapse  of  life. 
He  said,  it  may  perhaps  be  so,  that  we  may  out- 
live our  friends  a  long  time,  and  forget  their  words 
and  looks,  but  still  that  there  is  with  us  the  love 
they  quickened  in  our  hearts,  and  that  it  lasts  on 
in  us,  life,  happiness,  and  a  purifying  power.  And 
he  concluded  with  saying,  "  Sabbath  by  Sabbath, 
when  we  come  into  this  place  to  worship,  is  not 
it  over  the  graves  of  former  generations?  And 
the  shadow  of  death  upon  us,  —  it  is  from  be- 
neath this  that  we  enter  into  higher  and  yet  higher 
worship.  We  disciples  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows, — 
we  believe  this ;  —  let  us  also  come  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  truth." 


*•  A    TALE.  41 

All  this  it  was  as  though  Martin  May  heard 
and  yet  did  not  hear.  It  went  through  his  mind 
with  a  sweet,  soothing  effect,  but  was  hardly  any 
of  it  retained ;  and  when  he  left  the  chapel,  he 
felt  as  though  he  had  been  weeping  all  his  old 
tears  over  again,  only  that  they  had  been  less 
bitter  than  before. 

In  the  afternoon  the  minister  discoursed  from 
the  same  text  as  in  the  morning,  but  in  a  more 
general  way.  In  the  morning  the  sermon  seemed 
to  be  directed  to  the  pews  in  which  the  mourn- 
ers sat;  but  in  the  afternoon  the  minister  ap- 
peared to  have  in  his  eye  the  whole  congrega- 
tion. He  began  with  saying,  "  This  year  it  hap- 
pened that  St.  David's  fell  upon  a  Sunday.  But 
the  sermon  which  I  had  prepared  for  that  day 
I  was  prevented  from  preaching.  Some  portions 
of  it  I  shall  address  to  you  this  afternoon.  And  I 
can  do  so  the  more  properly  because  St.  David's, 
as  a  festival-day,  commemorates  not  the  royal 
Psalmist  himself,  but  only  his  name,  as  borne 
by  his  namesake,  an  archbishop  of  Wales."  This 
the  minister  said,  partly  in  explanation  of  the  na- 
ture of  the  sermon,  and  partly  because  he  knew 
that  there  are  some  minds  which  are  more  effec- 
tually comforted  by  words  not  spoken  with  a 
view  to  themselves  especially. 


42  THORPE,  •* 

Of  this  sermon  Martin  May,  on  his  return  to 
the  Dell,  wrote  out  his  recollections  at  length. 
For  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  feel  as  though  to-day 
were  a  crisis  in  my  spiritual  life ;  and  I  could 
wish  to  preserve  some  memorial  of  it."  And  so 
he  wrote  the  following:  — 

" '  Your  heart  shall  live  for  ever.'  —  Ps.  xxii.  26. 

"  So  said  David  to  his  friends,  in  a  time  of  dis- 
tress. And  at  least  his  own  heart  is  living  still, 
and  at  this  day  is  more  widely  felt  than  ever. 
The  Psalms  of  David,  —  we  read  them  for  instruc- 
tion, we  sing  them  for  joy,  and  we  repeat  them 
for  sorrow  and  remorse;  and  not  we  only,  but 
millions,  and  nations  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, — 
the  child  in  his  simplicity,  and  men  and  women 
in  their  experience,  —  the  backwoodsman  in  the 
primeval  forest,  and  the  dweller  among  the  tombs 
and  the  roofless  ruins  of  ancient  Rome. 

"  The  heart  of  David !  how  it  throbs  among 
us,  —  making  us  feel,  as  David  himself  felt,  — 
weep,  as  though  with  his  wet  cheeks  to  look  at, 

—  and   rejoice,   as   though  within   hearing  of  his 
harp,  —  and  mourn,  as  though  in  his  sin  we  were 
reminded  of  our  own,  —  and  clasp  our  hands,  as 
though  with    his    helplessness,  —  and  look  up   on 
high,  as  though   emboldened   with  his  confidence, 

—  and  pray,  as  though  with  his  voice  in  our  ears, 
trembling,  and  sobbing,  and  sublimely  trustful. 


A    TALE.  43 

" '  Why  art  thou  cast  down,  O  my  soul  ?  and 
why  art  thou  disquieted  in  me?  Hope  thou  in 
God:  for  I  shall  yet  praise  him  for  the  help  of 
his  countenance.'  '  Create  in  me  a  clean  heart, 
O  God ;  and  renew  a  right  spirit  within  me.  Cast 
me  not  away  from  thy  presence:  and  take  not 
thy  Holy  Spirit  from  me.  The  sacrifices  of  God 
are  a  broken  spirit :  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart, 

0  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise.'     '  Let  the  words 
of  my  mouth,  and  the  meditation  of  my  heart,  be 
acceptable  in  thy  sight,  O  Lord,  my  strength  and 
my  redeemer.'     '  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd :  I  shall 
not  want.     He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green 
pastures:   he  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 
He  restoreth  my  soul :  he  leadeth  me  in  the  palfcs 
of  righteousness  for  his  name's  sake.     Yea,  though 

1  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
I  will  fear  no  evil ;  for  thou   art  with  me ;   thy 
rod  and  thy  staff,  they  comfort  me.'     '  I  have  set 
the  Lord  always  before  me:  because  he  is  at  my 
right  hand,  I  shall  not  be  moved.     Therefore  my 
heart  is  glad,  and  my  glory  rejoiceth :  my  flesh 
also  shall  rest  in  hope.     For  thou  wilt  not  leave 
my  soul  in  hell :  neither  wilt  thou  suffer  thy  Holy 
One  to  see  corruption.     Thou  wilt  show  me  the 
path  of  life:   in  thy  presence  is  fulness   of  joy; 
at  thy  right  hand  there  are  pleasures  for  evermore.' 


44  THORPE, 

O  the  times  these  words  have  been  said,  and  Da- 
vid's heart  in  them  been  felt  throbbing  and  warm ! 
O  the  people  that  have  used  them,  —  priests  in 
the  temple  at  Jerusalem,  —  captive  Jews,  by  the 
river  of  Babylon,  —  the  early  Christians,  in  their 
secret  worship,  —  sinners,  trembling  with  God's 
angry  eye  upon  them,  —  saints,  feeling  themselves 
all  the  more  unworthy,  the  nigher  a  Holy  God  their 
lives  advanced  them,  —  righteous  men,  outcasts 
of  the  world,  joying  to  feel  themselves  cast  upon 
God,  —  good  men,  communing  with  God  all  the 
more  earnestly  for  being  lonely  souls  in  a  crowded 
earth,  —  men  with  such  a  yearning  for  God  as 
only  some  prophet's  words  could  speak,  —  suffer- 
ers, with  a  faith  in  them  greater  than  their  own 
utterance,  a  spirit  bearing  witness  with  their  spirits, 

—  dying  men,  praying  their  truest  as  well  as  their 
last,  —  widows  and  orphans,  with  only  dead  dust 
to  look  at  for  what  had  been  their  friend,  but  with 
an  immortal  soul  to  believe  in,  safe  beyond  cor- 
ruption and  the  grave! 

"And  O  what  things  the  Psalms  have  outlasted, 

—  the  national  existence  of  David's  own  people, 

—  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  burning 
of  the  temple,  —  the  rise  and  fall  of  kingdoms, — 
the  prevalence  of  many  a  language,  the  Egyptian, 
the    Chaldean,  the    Greek,   the   Roman,   and  the 


A    TALE. 


Gothic,  —  the  erection  and  the  fall  of  great  build- 
ings, castles,  churches,  and  cathedrals,  —  forgotten 
names,  the  world  once  echoed  with,  —  the  fame 
and  dread  of  kings,  —  the  foundation  and  the  dis- 
appearance of  cities,  —  and,  one  after  another,  a 
hundred  generations  of  men,  their  lives  and  their 
exits  by  death. 

"  We  may  well  believe  they  will  last  for  ever,  — 
the  Psalms  with  David's  heart  in  them;  for  they 
have  outlasted  so  much  already,  —  thirty  centu- 
ries of  time,  myriads  of  books,  and  the  laws  and 
customs  of  a  hundred  nations. 

"  Ages  hence,  for  the  men  of  another  era  than 
ours,  there  may  be  other  institutions  than  what 
we  live  under,  —  and  other  customs  than  what  we 
use,  —  and  clearer  lights  to  walk  by  than  shine 
on  our  prejudiced  paths,  —  better  ways  of  travel 
than  we  know  of,  —  and  larger  comforts  from  na- 
ture than  are  obtainable  yet,  —  and  more  justly 
famous  names  than  we  talk  of.  But  in  that  fu- 
ture, far  away  among  men,  we  do  not  know  how 
to  name,  —  in  the  great,  dim  future,  that  is  to 
brighten,  and  open,  and  disclose  such  wonders, — 
there  will  be  living  still  the  heart  of  David, — 
living  and  to  live  for  ever. 

"  And  oh!  with  us,  and  in  us  ourselves,  how  it 
lives,  —  that  heart  of  David's,  —  what  comfort  and 


46  THORPE, 

encouragement  and  faith  for  us !  O  the  desolate 
way  the  soul  feels  often,  —  so  strange  to  God,  as 
though  unknown  to  him,  —  so  cold  towards  God, 
as  though  warm  with  his  love  it  never  had  been, 
or  could  be,  —  so  worthless  in  itself,  and  unworthy 
God's  notice,  as  though  mind  it,  or  love  it,  he 
did  not  and  could  not.  With  words  of  our  own, 
any,  the  most  earnest,  we  ourselves  can  pray; 
sometimes  it  feels  as  though  God's  ear  we  could 
not  reach.  But  we  say,  '  Let  the  words  of  my 
mouth,  and  the  meditation  of  my  heart,  be  ac- 
ceptable in  thy  sight,  O  Lord,  my  strength  and 
my  redeemer.'  And  by  saying  along  with  Da- 
vid, we  feel  along  with  him,  and  we  thrill  with 
the  force  of  his  holy  words,  and  we  feel  them 
reach  the  listening  ear  of  God.  Another  time  we 
feel  so  depressed  with  recollections  of  folly  and 
sin,  that  for  prayer  we  have  no  heart,  and  we 
could  wish  to  disappear  from  the  sight  of  God 
for  ever.  But  we  have  the  words  of  another  to 
pray  with,  —  a  transgressor's  words.  And  with 
his  repentant  words  we  can  speak,  and  weep,  and 
repent,  and  pray,  and  be  reconciled.  '  Have  mercy 
upon  me,  O  God,  according  to  thy  loving  kind- 
ness ;  according  unto  the  multitude  of  thy  tender 
mercies  blot  out  my  transgressions.  Wash  me 
thoroughly  from  my  iniquity,  and  cleanse  me  from 


A    TALE.  47 

my  sin.  For  I  acknowledge  my  transgressions; 
and  my  sin  is  ever  before  me.  Against  thee,  thee 
only,  have  I  sinned,  and  done  this  evil  in  thy 
sight.'  And  with  David's  wording  of  it,  sin  itself 
feels  like  what  draws  God's  eye  in  pity  on  us. 
Often  it  feels  such  a  mere  nothing  as  to  be  worth- 
less almost,  our  human  life.  But  we  say  along 
with  the  Psalmist,  '  Behold,  thou  hast  made  my 
days  as  a  handbreadth,  and  mine  age  is  as  noth- 
ing before  thee.'  And,  overshadowed  by  God,  our 
lives  feel  shorter  still,  but  also  strangely  hopeful 
and  trustful.  And  there  are  despondent  seasons, 
when  we  feel  so  useless  and  worthless,  that  almost 
we  could  despair  of  the  life  to  come.  But  with 
repeating  David's  words  there  quickens  between 
us  and  God  a  feeling  of  alliance, —  a  bond  to 
trust  to,  —  a  relationship  stronger  than  death.  '  I 
have  set  the  Lord  always  before  me  :  because  he 
is  at  my  right  hand,  I  shall  not  be  moved.  There- 
fore my  heart  is  glad,  and  my  glory  rejoiceth;  my 
flesh  also  shall  rest  in  hope.  For  thou  wilt  not 
leave  my  soul  in  hell :  neither  wilt  thou  suffer  thy 
Holy  One  to  see  corruption.'  O,  how  it  lives  on 
among  us,  —  David's  heart, —  helping  and  bless- 
ing, inspiriting  and  inspiring  us ! 

"  And  this   life   of  his   heart  in  this  world,  — 
is  not  it  a  sign,  a  token,  some  evidence  of  Da- 


48  THORPE, 

vid's  own,  his  soul's  life  with  God?  For  it  can- 
not have  been  extinguished  for  ever,  —  a  heart 
so  strong  that  its  words  are  echoing  about  the 
world  still,  and  as  loud  as  ever.  Thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands,  and  millions  and  tens  of  mil- 
lions of  people  turn  their  faces  toward  God,  look- 
ing in  the  direction  David  showed.  And  him- 
self he  is  where  we  look  to ;  he  is  before  the 
throne.  We  look  in  the  direction  of  his  words; 
and  it  is  after  his  soul  also.  It  must  be ;  we  feel 
it  must. 

"  Age  after  age  men  worshipping  in  his  spirit, 
and  David  himself  perished !  It  cannot  be.  Every- 
where now,  and  for  three  thousand  years,  men 
have  been  affected,  as  you  and  I  are,  with  the 
feelings  and  the  movements  of  David's  heart. 
Its  thoughts  lasting  on,  thousands  of  years, — 
its  devoutness  still  yearning,  —  its  remorse  still 
weeping  and  groaning  among  us,  —  its  faith  still 
living  and  earnest,  —  its  hope  and  trust  still  mak- 
ing themselves  felt  among  us ;  and  the  heart  itself 
extinct!  It  cannot  be.  No,  David,  no,  'your 
heart  shall  live  for  ever.' 

"  And  live  it  does,  and  helps  our  own  belief  in 
immortality.  The  heart  of  David,  —  it  sustains 
our  faith.  For  it  throbs  in  our  breasts,  and  thrills 
us  with  feelings  by. which  we  are  sure  of  our 


A    TALE.  49 

being  more  than  earthly,  more  than  mortal.  That 
great  heart,  —  we  receive  it  into  our  souls ;  and 
it  is  life  in  them,  and  strengthens  them,  and 
makes  them  feel  earnest,  —  creatures  of  God, — 
and  to  live  for  ever. 

"  And  yourselves,  it  is  out  of  the  heart  that 
you  best  help  one  another,  and  that  you  most 
surely  trust  and  feel  yourselves  immortal.  And 
more  than  any  thing  else,  either  of  your  attain- 
ment or  your  nature,  it  will  be  '  your  heart  shall 
live  for  ever.' 

"  It  is  out  of  the  heart  that  you  help  one  another 
most  effectively.  You  may  be  ever  so  learned 
in  history  or  science,  be  ever  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  you  may  be 
ever  so  ready  to  impart  your  information;  but 
you  will  not  effect  much  good  with  your  conver- 
sation, if  you  have  not  a  good  heart  in  you.  For 
without  that,  you  merely  mortify  people  with  your 
superior  knowledge.  And  without  it,  also,  logical 
power  in  any  one  exasperates,  and  wit  provokes. 
Not  the  man  who  is  all  memory,  and  reasoning 
power,  and  science,  and  acuteness, —  not  he  is  of 
most  good  as  a  companion  or  a  citizen ;  but  he 
who  is  a  man  of  heart  as  well  as  head,  —  a  man 
of  feelings,  —  a  man  of  reverence,  awe,  fear,  love, 
devotion,  trust,  and  faith,  —  a  man  that  feels  him- 

4 


50 


THORPE, 


self  circled  about  with  infinity,  —  who  is  sensible 
of  a  million  dangers  about  him,  God's  invisible 
shield  keeps  off,  —  who  is  tender  with  the  feeling 
of  his  being  mortal,  —  lowly,  as  though  with  his 
pride  abashed  by  the  watchful  eye  of  God, — 
fearful  of  sin,  as  knowing  of  the  secret  ways  it 
steals  upon  the  soul, — who  is  affectionate  in  word, 
and  look,  and  service,  cheering  men's  souls  with 
the  very  look  of  him,  and  strengthening  for  them 
unconsciously  their  belief  in  the  goodness  of  the 
world,  —  a  man  that  walks  the  earth  in  the  faith 
of  heaven,  moving  among  things  that  are  seen, 
mindful  the  while  of  things  not  seen  and  eternal, 
God's  great  purposes  that  compass  him  about 
even  here,  and  that  reach  away  into  eternity. 
Such  a  person  may  be  wanting  in  science,  and 
be  not  very  widely  read  in  history,  and  not  be 
very  quick  at  an  argument,  and  have  no  great 
wealth,  with  which  to  be  generous.  But  he  blesses 
men  with  what  is  better  and  rarer  than  money, 
and  in  ways  in  which  the  mere  intellect  is  help- 
less. From  the  heart  that  is  in  him,  such  a 
man  blesses  with  an  everlasting  blessing,  even  in 
chance  words  sometimes;  and  he  carries  about 
him,  like  an  atmosphere,  the  presence  of  God, 
for  men  to  feel ;  arid  he  speaks  in  a  manner  that 
tunes  men's  minds  to  cheerfulness,  and  braces 


A    TALE.  51 

them  to  honesty.  Yes,  from  the  way  you  smile, 
the  manner  you  speak  of  God,  the  tone  of  your 
voice,  as  well  as  from  your  actions  and  your  seri- 
ous words,  it  will  be  so,  —  it  may  be,  and  we 
will  trust  it  will  be,  —  that,  by  its  effects  on  the 
minds  of  your  children,  acquaintances,  and  friends, 
'your  heart  will  live  for  ever.' 

"  It  is  out  of  the  heart  that  we  can  best  feel 
and  trust  our  immortality.  The  heart  is  its  own 
witness  as  to  a  life  to  come.  It  is  consciously 
immortal.  Not  so  the  intellect.  You  may  grow 
ever  so  learned,  and  scientific,  and  logical:  but 
you  will  not  therefore  find  yourselves  grown  more 
hopeful,  more  believing.  No!  The  mere  intel- 
lect testifies  about  itself  almost  only  this,  '  Vanity 
of  vanities,  all  is  vanity.'  It  is  with  the  heart  a 
man  believes;  with  his  feelings,  and  not  at  all 
without  them ;  with  love  that  cannot  endure  to 
be  mortal,  —  with  worship  that  feels  itself  coeter- 
nal  with  the  God  it  yearns  upon,  —  and  with  all 
those  spiritual  states  that  result  from  talking  with 
God,  and  acting  for  him.  Every  day  you  may 
be  strengthening  in  faith  as  to  a  hereafter;  and 
you  ought  to  be.  For  indeed  every  prayer  you 
breathe  that  is  earnest,  every  act  of  patience  with 
pain,  because  of  God,  every  instance  of  self-humil- 
iation for  sin,  every  sigh  for  your  meanness  before 


52  THORPE, 

God,  every  recollection  of  God  as  holy  or  watchful, 
and  also  every  instance  of  interest  in  the  moral 
welfare  of  another,  whether  a  child  or  a  man, 
and  even  every  joy  you  have  that  is  pure,  —  these 
all,  things  small  and  great,  may  help  you  to  feel 
that  '  your  heart  shall  live  for  ever.' 

" '  Your  heart  will  live  for  ever,'  and  more  than 
any  thing  else,  either  of  your  nature  or  your  at- 
tainment. O,  how  many  a  characteristic  will  fail 
us  hereafter,  and  leave  some  of  the  first  of  us 
last !  And  how  many  a  quality  that  is  now  little 
will  hereafter  be  a  qualification  distinctive  and 
great!  It  will  fail  the  merchant,  the  forethought 
that  is  like  the  mastery  of  the  market,  —  the  quick 
discrimination,  which  sees  great  profits  in  small 
openings,  —  and  that  aptitude  of  his  for  business, 
which  is  all  the  more  successful  the  more  exactly 
it  is  business-like  and  nothing  else.  It  will  fail 
the  artisan,  that  cunning  hand  that  is  now  his 
pride  and  living.  t  It  will  fail  the  good  mother, 
the  skill  that  keeps  the  house  warm  and  clean,  — 
the  knowledge  that  keeps  it  tasteful  at  the  small- 
est cost,  —  the  ability  that  gathers  into  it  comforts 
from  markets,  and  shops,  and  gardens,  —  the  or- 
derly management  that  keeps  regular  the  on-goings 
of  the  family,  and  the  day  and  the  week.  It  will 
fail  him,  the  man  of  mind  and  philosophy,  the 


A    TALE.  53 

learning  of  his  books,  the  science  of  the  universe. 
For  it  will  be  quenched,  even  his  lamp  of  science, 
in  the  full  blaze  of  the  Godhead,  the  brightness 
of  God's  uplifted  countenance.  Of  mere  inge- 
nuity, and  learning,  and  ability,  so  much  must 
fail  us  on  the  floor  of  heaven,  —  left  behind  with 
the  world  it  knows  of,  and  to  perish  with  it. 

"  But  it  will  live  on  and  for  ever,  your  heart,  — 
your  feelings  of  reverence,  and  obedience,  and  res- 
ignation towards  God,  —  your  feelings  of  mys- 
tery, and  awe,  and  wonder  about  this  universe 
you  live  in,  —  your  faith  in  the  future,  as  having 
in  it  more  and  more  of  God  to  show,  —  your 
patience,  and  commiseration,  and  love  towards 
them  that  are  of  your  household,  and  neighbor- 
hood, and  town,  and  country. 

"  The  beginnings  of  life  immortal,  —  they  are 
with  you  now.  And  it  is  for  you  to  grow  into 
them  more  and  more.  All  life  is  overspread  with 
the  beginnings  of  the  great,  sweet,  earnest  hereafter. 
Grow  into  them,  —  patience  with  pain,  because  of 
God  that  allows  it,  —  forbearance  with  a  wrong- 
doer, because  of  the  God  that  looks  upon  you 
both,  —  the  feeling  that  draws  husband  and  wife, 
and  parents  and  children,  to  the  utterance  of  a 
common  prayer, — the  motive  on  which,  from  the 
streets  about,  men  meet  at  the  house  of  God, — 


54  THORPE, 

the  dear,  thoughtful  quiet  of  the  Sabbath,  —  the 
sympathy  that  rejoices  with  them  that  do  rejoice, 
and  weeps  with  them  that  weep,  —  the  welcome 
awe  sometimes  with  which  God  flashes  across 
our  souls  in  the  streets,  or  at  our  work,  —  the 
strange  persuasion  there  sometimes  rises  in  us  of 
judgment  to  come,  —  what  little  meaning  there  is 
in  saying,  '  Good  morning,'  or  '  Good  night,'  or 
'  Good  by,'  —  the  exaltation  that  ensues  on  dutiful 
effort,  and  the  peace  that  follows  prayer.  Give 
into  them,  grow  into  them,  for  signs  these  are, 
and  beginnings  of  the  way  '  your  heart  shall  live 
for  ever.'" 


A    TALE. 


55 


VI. 

THE  Past,  the  Past!  There  is  no  going  back 
to  it.  There  is  a  gate  fast  shut  against  us. 
And  through  that  gate  we  can  see  and  hear, 
but  we  cannot  return.  At  that  gate  had  Martin 
May  sat  mournfully  for  many  months,  looking 
back  on  scenes  which  day  after  day  seemed 
farther  off,  and  listening  to  kind  voices.  And 
among  these  voices  was  one  so  tender  and 
solemn,  that  often,  with  hearing  it,  he  would 
weep  and  bow  his  head  upon  his  hands  in  an- 
guish. But  one  day  it  seemed  to  him  that 
this  voice  echoed  some  of  the  very  words  he 
had  heard  from  the  minister  on  the  Sabbath : 
"  Is  it  the  highest  love  we  feel,  —  love  from  the 
innermost  sacred  recesses  of  the  heart,  —  when 
we  grow  weak  with  it  and  not  strong?"  And 
he  said  to  himself,  "  I  am  wrong.  I  must  change. 
I  must  be  the  better  for  the  good  which  has 


56 


THORPE, 


been,  and  not  the  worse."  But  still  the  present 
was  distasteful  to  him,  and  the  future  was  repug- 
nant to  think  of. 

The  Past,  the  Past!  O,  how  it  reaches  after 
us,  with  a  thousand  hands,  from  Jerusalem  and 
Rome,  from  old  Saxon  times,  and  from  out  of 
Norman  castles,  from  out  of  ancient  pulpits 
and  tombs,  and  from  every  place  wherever  men 
have  lived  and  died,  —  hands,  many  of  them 
stretched  after  us  to  bless  us,  some  of  them 
by  making  above  us  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
some  of  them  by  letting  our  fevered  spirits 
feel  the  coolness  of  their  touch,  and  some  of 
them  by  pointing  us  to  a  walk  in  life,  humble 
and  quiet,  and  with  God  in  sight. 

The  past,  the  past!  O,  how  grateful  to  walk 
in  are  its  long  shadows,  for  a  man  who  has  been 
smitten  by  the  heat  of  the  noonday  of  life ! 

As  a  shadow  from  the  heat,  —  it  was  for  this 
reason  that  Martin  May  began  to  feel  an  interest 
in  the  antiquities  of  his  neighborhood ;  though 
he  himself  thought  he  was  fond  of  them  for 
the  sake  merely  of  the  exercise  to  which  they 
drew  him  in  walking  and  riding.  And  gradually, 
as  his  gloom  passed  away,  he  noticed,  not  without 
some  astonishment,  a  new  tendency  in  his  mind 
to  humor.  Not  that  he  had  any  pleasure  in  it, 


A    TALE.  57 

but  that  it  was  so  he  felt!  And  he  thought  he 
understood  how  it  was,  in  other  ages,  that  artists 
should  have  decorated  churches  with  sculptured 
satires,  and  grotesque  carvings ;  being  themselves 
all  the  while  men  of  earnestness 'and  reverence 
and  holiness. 

He  made  journeys  to  ancient  ruins,  he  sought  . 
out  old  relics,  he  became  curious  in  the  history 
of  provincial  words,  he  would  sit  and  listen  to 
rustic  traditions,  he  felt  an  interest  in  the  super- 
stitions of  the  peasantry  and  their  old  customs. 
And  for  the  time  he  agreed  with  Plautus,  that 
they  are  wise  who  have  a  regard  for  ancient  sto- 
ries. 


58  THORPE, 


VII. 

ONE  afternoon,  half  a  mile  down  the  street 
from  the  Parsonage,  the  minister  went  in  at  the 
gate  of  the  garden  before  Mrs.  Gentle's  house. 
The  house  was  low  and  wide,  and  all  over  the 
front  was  covered  with  ivy.  It  was  the  house 
at  which  lodged  Mr.  George  Coke.  The  minis- 
ter found  Mr.  Coke  seated  at  the  window,  in  an 
•easy-chair.  He  was  a  man  of  forty-five  years  of 
age,  and  of  a  graceful,  dignified  appearance. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  I  am  ill.  I  am  very 
ill.  And  I  have  come  away  from  the  noise  and 
business  of  Manchester,  to  think  awhile  here  and 
die.  And  it  will  all  end  in  a  handful  of  dust 
soon,  all  that  I  have  been." 

"But  such  dust  as  God  watches,  —  dust  such 
as  angels  may  grow  from,  on  the  morning  of 
the  resurrection." 

"  What  day  of  the  month  is  this,  Mr.  Lin- 
gard  ?  " 


A    TALE.  59 

"  It  is  the  twenty-fourth,  —  St.  Bartholomew's 
day." 

"  And  so  time  goes !      How  it  mocks  us,  does 

• 

not  it  ?  Two  months  ago,  and  almost  I  was 
longing  for  this  very  day.  It  is  come ;  and  I  did 
not  know  it  was.  I  thought  to  have  had  it  be 
a  day  of  political  success,  joyous  with  twenty 
thousand  voices  of  acclamation.  And  it  proves 
to  be  a  day  in  a  sick  room,  a  sick  chair,  and  on 
sick  diet." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Coke,  it  is  so  life  is." 

"  Or  if  the  day  does  not  alter  from  its  ex- 
pected character,  then  it  deludes  us  in  another 
way.  It  comes,  and  it  comes:  nearer  and  near- 
er it  comes,  and  then  it  is  gone.  You  cannot 
say  of  any  moment  that  it  is  here,  for  even  while 
you  say  so,  and  quicker  than  you  can  say,  '  It  is 
here,'  it  is  gone.  And  a  great  day  comes.  It 
comes  from  out  of  infinity,  and  through  a  rain- 
bow of  promise :  swift  and  joyful  it  comes.  And 
then,  before  we  have  rightly  felt  it,  it  is  gone 
past.  A  long-expected  day,  a  day  of  fond  wishes, 
and  perhaps  of  earnest  prayers,  comes  along  near- 
er and  nearer  to  us.  It  is  like  a  beloved  friend 
with  its  coming.  And  so  we  stretch  out  our 
arms  to  embrace  it.  But  it  slides  past  us.  And 
we  draw  back  our  arms,  and  fold  to  our  breasts 
nothing." 


60  THORPE, 

"  But  to  our  hearts  we  do  fold  experience." 
"  Yes,  Mr.  Lingard,  and  such  experience  as 
there  is  no  gainsaying.  We  mortals,  we  are 
made  to  feel  ourselves  m<3re  and  more  mortal. 
O  the  years  we  look  to  in  youth,  so  radiant  and 
blissful,  years  of  honor  and  success  and  love  ! 
They  come ;  but  they  do  not  come  as  they  looked. 
They  go  past  us,  but  they  do  not  feel  what  we 
hoped.  And  to  look  back  on,  they  are  all  de- 
ceit; and  they  call  to  us,  as  though  mocking  us. 
It  is  for  our  good,  I  suppose.  And  it  is  to  make 
us  feel  what  weak,  worthless  'creatures  we  are, 
amid  the  invisible  things'  even  of  this  world,  and 
therefore  how  much  more  we  must  be  so,  as  hav- 
ing among  us  the  powers  of  the  world  to  come." 
"  This  nothingness,"  said  the  minister,  "  this 
nothingness,  which  life  feels,  is  from  the  exercise 
of  the  hand  or  the  intellect  merely.  The  life  of 
the  heart,  —  that  never  feels  illusive  nor  transient. 
The  affections  may  have  laid  hold  of  the  nearest 
objects  and  grown  about  them,  and  therefore  may 
have  clasped  what  was  unsuitable,  unworthy,  or 
what  may  have  died  and  fallen.  But  always 
the  affections  themselves  feel  real  and  eternal. 
Indeed,  sir,  I  think  you  would  say,  from  your 
own  experience  in  the  world,  that  the  heart  may 
be  disappointed  in  one  object  and  another  and 


A    TALE.  61 

another,  but  yet  still  believes  in  some  rest  to  be 
found,  some' " 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  you  said  that  this 
was  the  twenty-fourth  of  August;  did  not  you? 
Pardon  my  interrupting  you.  But  it  does  seem 
to  me  so  strange  that  this  should  be  the  day  it 
is.  Long  as  I  have  known  of  their  having  been 
open  for  me,  —  the  gates  of  the  City  of  the  Dead, 
—  yet  little  did  I  think,  a  month  ago,  that  to-day 
1  should  be  approached  to  within  such  near  sight 
of  them." 

"  And  behind  you,  Mr.  Coke,  a  life  not  with- 
out some  useful  actions  done  along  its  course." 

"  I  think  so ;  but,  sir,  I  do  not  feel  so.  And 
this  is  so  strange.  Altogether  worthless,  and  not 
worth  remembering,  feels  now  many  an  action 
of  energy  and  integrity,  and  eminent  success  and 
public  use.  I  find  them  no  glory  to  look  back 
on,  —  some  few  days  of  virtue,  which  I  have  for- 
merly hoped  might,  to  remember,  be  some  com- 
fort and  spiritual  assurance  against  death." 

"  Down  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
the  soul  is  so  earnest,  that  of  necessity  all  her 
previous  experiences,  the  best  of  them,  must  be, 
to  recollect,  comparatively  cold  and  mean." 

"  So  strange  it  is,  sirv  so  illusive !  I  suppose 
it  is  for  the  purpose  of  humbling  us  men,  and 


62  THORPE, 

making  us  feel  that  there  is  nothing  of  our  own 
building  that  will  last,  —  no  foothold  in  life  but 
will  fail  us,  —  no  wise  word  but  will  sound  like 
folly  some  time.  And  it  is  as  though,  for  comfort 
or  pleasant  remembrance,  there  were  no  reliance 
to  be  placed  on  even  such  things  of  our  doing 
as  have  in  them  the  most  of  virtue." 

"  But,"  replied  the  minister,  "  rightly  understood 
there  is.  For  on  the  book  of  the  Divine  remem- 
brance our  virtuous  actions  are  always  the  same 
that  they  ever  were  ;  and  the  record  of  them 
never  fades.  To  our  own  feelings  they  alter  in 
value,  but  not  to  our  feelings  as  being  illusive, 
but  as  having  grown  more  earnest.  The  earnest- 
ness of  philanthropic  politics,  and  upright  trade, 
may  well  feel  to  ourselves  like  nothing,  at  the 
end  of  life  ;  the  best  earnestness  of  the  world 
feeling  quenched  and  worthless  in  the  new  ear- 
nestness of  the  world's  end,  and  which  is  not 
without  a  something  in  it  that  is  divine.  But,  as 
you  say,  it  must  indeed  be  strange  to  look  back 
on  life  from  under  the  shadow  of  death." 

"  See,  sir,  on  the  book-shelf  yonder  lies  the 
newspaper.  No  doubt  there  is  my  name  in  it, 
in  more  places  than  one.  But  it  has  never  been 
opened,  And  to  me  now  all  the  world  is  be- 
come a  shut  book,  which  I  do  not  wish  to  open 


A    TALE.  .  63 

for  one  word ;  and  also  on  which  soon  the  brass 
fastenings  will  be  closed." 

"  With  God  looking  on  and  pitying,  and " 

"  Yes,  now,  for  me,  it  is  all  being  closed,  ended. 
All  life,  to  remember,  feels  nothing,  and  yet  in 
passing  it  was  such  a  struggle,  such  a  succes- 
sion of  efforts,  and  sometimes  such  an  intensity 
of  thought.  O  the  strictness  of  the  habits  with 
which  I  began  my  life  in  Manchester,  and  to 
which  I  made  every  thing  bend,  and  by  which  I 
kept  myself  virtuous  !  O  the  disappointments 
I  bore,  the  wrong  I  forgave !  O  the  long,  patient 
Jiours  of  study  in  an  evening,  year  after  year, 
by  which  I  endeavored  to  compensate  for  the  de- 
fectiveness  of  my  education  in  a  village  school! 
O  the  triumphs  I  achieved  against  Toryism,  — 
the  way  my  name  went  about  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  paper  to  paper,  a  watchword  for  the 
Liberals !  O  the  multitudes  who  have  listened 
to  me  breathless  and  convinced!  In  life,  O  the 
mountains  I  have  crossed,  the  battles  I  have 
come  through,  the  high  places  on  which  I  have 
stood,  with  crowds  thronging  round  me  to  ap- 
plaud! But  now  that  my  path  has  turned  from 
among  men  down  into  the  valley  of  death,  it 
feels  to  me  as  though,  in  all  my  life  before, 
there  had  been  no  philanthropy,  no  integrity, 


64  THORPE, 

no  self-constraint,  no  public  spirit,  no  success  at 
all." 

"Not,  however,"  said  the  minister,  "that  there 
may  not  have  been  all  these  graces  adorning 
our  lives,  as  we  walked  along  their  course !  And 
not  that  they  do  not  exist  still  in  reality !  But 
at  the  end  of  life  we  are  alone  with  God.  And 
if  we  are  right-minded,  we  cannot  but  feel  that, 
with  God  watching  us,  our  good  actions  are 
nothing  to  remember,  and  are  even  vanity.  Can 
we,  —  would  we  wish  to  look  at  God,  and  be 
able  to  count  up  our  own  virtues  while  gazing 
at  his  holiness  ?  " 

"  But  are  we  not  to  believe  that  we  are  ac- 
cepted for  our  righteous  actions?  And  our  past 
actions,  are  they  not  testimonies  to  us  of  what 
our  life  has  been  ?  " 

"  Myself,"  replied  the  minister,  "  myself,  I  hope 
for  heaven,  not  for  what  virtue  I  can  remember 
there  having  been  in  my  actions,  the  best  of  them. 
But  rather  I  hope  for  heaven  because  of  that 
grace  of  God  which  teaches  us  that,  denying 
worldly  lusts,  we  should  live  soberly  in  this  pres- 
ent world,  looking  for  that  blessed  hope  and 
the  glorious  appearing  of  the  great  God  and  our 
Saviour  Jesus  Christ." 

"  What,  then,  would  you  say  moral  actions  are  ?  " 


A    TALE.  65 

"  A  way  to  the  high  hopes  of  religion ;  but 
not  themselves  hopeful  merely  out  of  their  own 
nature." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,  sir." 

"  A  right  life,"  said  the  minister,  "  a  right  life 
I  can  only  live  with  my  face  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. And  at  the  end  of  this  right  life,  it  is  not 
for  me  to  be  looking  back  for  encouragement, 
but  forward,  up  on  high,  to  the  Divine  arms, 
which  are  reaching  down  toward  me  from  heaven. 
And  into  our  world,  through  the  lips  of  Christ, 
O  the  blessed  words  God  speaks!  And  if  I 
have  been  walking  right,  my  face  must  be  in 
the  right  direction  for  catching  them ;  and  so  I 
cannot  fail  of  them,  but  hear  them  I  must, — 
those  words,  blessed,  blessed  words,  —  'Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy-laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.' " 

"  Yes,  I  feel  that,  and  I  understand  it,"  said  Mr. 
Coke. 

"  You  have  a  nephew,  a  student,  I  think,  Mr. 
Coke." 

"  And  you  would  wish  me  to  send  for  him, 
now  that  I  am  ill.  But  I  do  not  want  to  see  him, 
even  if  I  knew  where  he  is,  which  I  do  not.  I 
have  known  nothing  of  him  for  five  years.  And 
when  I  last  saw  him,  he  was  every  thing  which 

5 


66  THORPE, 

I  am  not,  and  which  I  hate  and  try  to  undo.  He 
was  a  young  Tory.  Still  I  am  obliged  to  you, 
Mr.  Lingard,  for  your  suggestion,  because  you 
meant  it  well.  But  just  at  present,  with  your 
permission,  we  will  say  no  more  about  it." 


A    TALE.  67 


VIII. 

THE  minister  sat  at  his  breakfast  in  his  study. 
His  cup  of  tea  on  the  table  was  cold.  On  his 
knee  there  lay  an  open  book;  but  he  was  not 
reading  it.  At  last  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  said 
to  himself,  half  aloud,  "  No,  I  cannot  any  way 
guess  at  it.  Yet,  quite  certainly,  on  Mr.  Coke's 
mind  there  is  something  which  I  ought  to  know 
of.  There  is  some  secret  in  him  which  he  is  the 
worse  for  keeping.  What  it  is,  how  it  is,  I  do  not 
know.  There  is  never  a  word  of  his  I  can  fix 
on,  which  tells  any  thing.  And  yet  sure  I  am, 
that  on  his  mind  there  is  something  that  over- 
shadows it,  blights  it;  for  whenever  he  grows 
earnest,  the  voice  of  his  soul  sounds  strange, 
and  as  though  it  were  uttered  from  under  some- 
thing oppressive.  A  crime!  One  cannot  suspect 
him  of  that;  no,  not  for  a  moment.  For  he  is 
the  soul  of  honor  incarnate.  He  might  have  sat 


68  THORPE, 

with  King  Arthur  among  his  knights  at  the  Round 
Table.  He  is  the  only  man  of  my  knowledge 
whom  Bayard  would  probably  have  liked,  and 
whom  Sidney  might  have  called  his  friend.  He 
is  a  noble  figure  and  a  noble  mind.  Along  side 
of  him,  one's  own  soul  erects  itself,  one's  own 
heart  beats  firm  and  strong.  I  respect, —  no,  I 
do  love  him.  Yes,  I  love  him.  For  he  has  a 
large,  tender  heart  in  his  breast,  notwithstanding 
his  austere  expression  and  his  authoritative  way 
at  times.  A  fine  man,  a  true  man,  though  proud ! 
Pride,  —  ay,  that  is  it !  Whatever  it  is,  that  secret 
of  his,  —  that  miserable  thing  he  keeps  to  himself, 
—  it  has  something  to  do  with  his  pride.  It  is 
his  pride  which  has  been  the  cause  of  it.  But 
I  must  find  it  out.  And  yet  I  do  not  know  how 
to  get  him  to  discover  it.  It  would  be  ridiculous 
to  think  to  extract  a  secret  from  a  man  like  him. 
A  frank,  open  question  would  be  the  proper  and 
the  likeliest  way.  But  then  his  pride  would  be 
mortified  at  having  let  his  secret  trouble  disclose 
itself.  And  then,  if  he  did  not  answer  my  ques- 
tion, it  would  be  worse  with  him,  —  his  mental 
condition,  —  than  it  is  now.  What  is  that  line 
on  Chatterton  ?  O,  I  remember,  — '  The  marvel- 
lous boy  that  perished  in  his  pride.'  Perish  in 
his  pride!  That  is  what  Mr.  Coke  might  do. 


A    TALE.  69 

He  is  a  man  to  die  of  anguish  with  the  serenest 
face.  But  what  can  it  be,  that  should  lie  heavy 
on  a  mind  like  his  ?  Strange  !  It  is  something 
his  soul  quails  beneath,  —  a  presence  of  terror 
about  his  mind.  And  they  do  At  reach  through 
it,  as  they  ought,  words  of  comfort  or  faith,  nor 
even  perhaps  the  gracious 'promises  of  the  Gospel. 
What  can  it  ever  be  ?  It  has  happened  that 
a  man  has  been  haunted  all  his  life  by  the  face 
of  a  street  beggar  he  had  failed  to  relieve.  But 
no;  it  cannot  be  any  thing  of  that  nature, — 
nothing  merely  fanciful.  However,  what  it  really 
is  I  shall  learn  soon,  I  trust.  It  is  strange  how 
we  wrap  ourselves  about  with  folds  of  secrecy. 
And  we  are  anxious  to  keep  secret  what  is  best 
in  us,  as  much  as  what  is  worst.  And  we  talk 
light  things  about  the  weather  and  outward  life; 
and  all  the  while  in  us  our  hearts  are  prompt- 
ing earnest  words.  Life,  —  how  often  it  is  a 
monotony,  a  masquerade,  with  all  the  people  in 
it  dressed  in  drab,  and  dressed  alike,  and  walk- 
ing about  and  saying,  '  How  do  you  do  ?  Very 
well,  thank  you.'  A  masquerade  in  dulness  and 
drab,  —  this  is  what  our  social  intercourse  is  of- 
ten enough ;  instead  of  being  a  scene  earnest 
with  God's  presence,  and  where  angel  thoughts 
pass  from  soul  to  soul.  And  myself,  —  how  is 


70 


THORPE 


it  with  me?  It  is  just  the  same.  And  soon, 
my  heart  burning  in  me,  and  my  lips  quivering 
with  emotion,  I  shall  go  down  the  street,  and 
say  to  one  and  another,  '  A  fine  day,  sir.  Good 
morning.'  " 


A    TALE.  71 


IN  the  early  part  of  the  evening  Martin  May 
called  at  the  Parsonage.  He  had  come  up  to  it, 
past  the  cross,  and  through  the  town. 

"Are  the  people,"  said  he,  "in  this  quiet  place 
gone  crazy?  There  are  more  vagabonds  now 
in  the  square,  than  I  thought  there  had  been  in 
all  the  country  about." 

"  O,  it  is  the  wake,"  replied  the  minister. 

"  The  wake,  the  wake  !  What  is  a  wake  ?  " 
•  "  In  itself,  it  is  what  you  saw,  though  in  its 
history  it  is  rather  more  respectable,  perhaps. 
Though  I  suppose  it  has  been  a  mere  scene  of 
debauchery  for  now  more  than  three  hundred 
years." 

"  Three  hundred  years !  Is  it  so  old,  the  folly  ?  " 
'  "  The  wake  was  once  called  a  clerk-ale,  or  a 
church-ale,  and  was  held  on  the  festival  day  of  the 
patron  saint  of  the  church,  or  perhaps  on  the  eve 


72  THORPE, 

of  the  feast.  It  was  an  entertainment  given  by 
the  parish  clerk,  and  was  resorted  to  by  all  true 
lovers  of  the  church,  and  perhaps  of  pastime.  So 
that  once  this  wake  was  a  legal,  an  ecclesiasti- 
cal institution,  —  or  church-ale.  As  a  reward  for 
his  services  in  the  church,  one  day  in  the  year 
the  clerk  was  allowed  to  keep  a  tavern  either  in 
it  or  close  by  it.  But  now  it  is  only  an  affair 
of  the  publicans,  at  their  own  houses,  and  for 
then-  own  benefit.  But  still,  in  the  celebration,  it 
is  the  same  thing  now  it  used  to  be." 

"  And  this  is  practised  all  over  the  country  ?  " 

"  Yes,  everywhere.  And  now  you  know  what 
a  wake  is;  and  better  than  I  do,  perhaps:  for  I 
have  avoided  the  sight  for  some  years." 

"  At  the  Golden  Lion,  on  long  poles  from  the 
windows,  there  are  hanging  several  hats,  two 
gown-pieces,  and  a  shawl.  At  the  door  there 
hangs  a  saddle  and  bridle  and  a  profusion  of  rib- 
bons. And  on  the  top  of  the  May-pole  there  is 
a  hat." 

"  Those  are  the  prizes  for  the  winners  at  the 
games." 

"  And  what  are  they  ?  " 

"  Men  in  bags  tied  up  at  the  chin,  running 
races,  —  men  blindfolded,  running  races  with 
wheelbarrows,  —  donkey-races,  at  which  the  riders 


A    TALE.  73 

exchange  animals  amongst  themselves,  and  the 
slowest  wins,  —  women  racing  for  gowns,  —  men 
grinning  their  ugliest  through  horse-collars,  —  boys 
eating  hot  hasty-pudding,  with  their  hands  tiexi 
behind  them.  And  the  hat  on  the  top  of  the 
May-pole  is  the  prize  for  climbing  to  it;  the  pole 
having  been  greased  at  the  upper  part.  And  by 
looking  into  the  old  authorities  you  will  find  that 
these  are  all  ancient  games,  and  no  doubt  once 
they  were  esteemed  very  humorous." 

"  But  the  drunkenness,  the  debauchery,  that  go 
with  them ! " 

"  The  very  thing  your  ancestor  said,  almost 
two  hundred  years  ago." 

"  Did  he  ?  That  is  odd.  But  then,  sir,  how 
do  you  know  he  said  so  ? " 

"  Because  he  was  a  Puritan.  And  to  the  Pu- 
ritans these  wakes  were  a  great  trouble  and  an 
utter  abomination.  Perhaps  it  was  some  pelting 
with  stones  at  this  very  Thorpe  wake,  that  deter- 
mined your  ancestor  to  emigrate.  Even  during 
the  last  century,  at  no  time  could  a  Presbyterian 
minister  have  walked  through  the  square,  on  the 
day  of  the  wake,  without  being  assaulted  with 
stones  and  worse  missiles,  as  being  a  Noncon- 
formist. Even  I  had  to  feel  myself  in  some 
peril,  once,  close  by  the  Cross,  from  people  crazy 
for  the  day  with  drink  and  loyalty." 


74  THORPE, 

"Persecuted  as  a  Puritan,  —  what  would  be. the 
immediate  causes  that  compelled  my  ancestor  to 
follow  the  Pilgrims  ?  " 

"  A  heavy  fine  for  every  day's  absence  from 
St.  John's  Church,  —  and  a  very  heavy  fine,  and 
perhaps  imprisonment,  for  every  time  that  he  was 
caught  praying  along  with  a  few  of  his  neighbors, 
or  listening  to  a  Puritan  clergyman.  At  Riving- 
ton  there  is  a  place  where  the  Puritans  of  this 
neighborhood  used  often  to  meet  in  the  night,  or 
on  a  Sunday,  for  religious  service." 

"  I  must  go  to  it." 

"  Almost  it  is  an  amphitheatre  sunk  in  the  top 
of  a  hill.  And  in  it  the  congregation  would 
meet  and  listen  to  some  clergyman  who  was  be- 
ing persecuted  from  place  to  place.  On  all  the 
ways  leading  to  this  spot  there  were  stationed 
watchers  against  spies  and  the  officers  of  the  gov- 
ernment. And  perhaps  some  one  of  them  would 
have  a  swift  horse  in  his  charge,  for  the  clergy- 
man to  escape  with.  Because,  if  he  were  taken, 
he  was  severely  punished,  perhaps  imprisoned  for 
life." 

"  Well,  I  wonder  they  had  not  all  gone  out 
to  the  Colonies,  —  all  the  Puritans." 

"  And  left  England  without  the  needful  num- 
ber of  righteous  men  in  it  for  its  salvation ! 


A    TALE.  75 

For  what  would  this  town  of  Thorpe  have  been, 
if  all  the  Puritans  in  it  had  gone  out  with  your 
emigrating  ancestor?" 

"  A  spot  of  earth  without  any  salt ! " 

"  So  it  would  have  been,  almost.  And  any 
time  during  the  last  century  any  body  would 
have  said  so  confidently." 

"  It  is  very  interesting  to  me,  sir,  to  see  what 
the  sources  are  in  this  Old  England  from  which 
there  have  been  derived  to  us  in  New  England 
what  is  worthiest  and  most  characteristic  among 
us.  And  I  find  them  chiefly  among  the  Indepen- 
dents and  the  Presbyterians,  as  you  call  your- 
selves. In  your  graveyard,  on  an  old  tombstone, 
there  is  a  name  I  have  never  seen  nor  heard 
anywhere  else  in  England.  But  in  Massachu- 
setts it  is  a  very  common  name.  Were  they  to 
seek  the  source  of  their  ancestral  religion  and 
character,  the  dwellers  in  three  or  four  Ameri- 
can towns,  I  fancy  there  would  come  thronging 
up  to  your  church  many  thousands  more  than 
would  get  in." 

"  From  a  Presbyterian  meeting-house,  a  few 
miles  from  this,  half  the  congregation,  with  their 
minister,  emigrated  to  America,  at  the  latter  end 
of  the  last  century;  being  wearied  out  with  per- 
secution. I  suppose  a  movement  of  that  charac- 


76  .      THORPE, 

ter  was  once  common  among  the  Puritans.  And 
therefore,  invisibly,  but  firmly,  there  are  twined 
about  our  humble  meeting-houses  here  roots  that 
rise  up  in  America,  and  meet  together  in  the 
trunk  of  that  tree  of  liberty,  which  now  is  grown 
so  wide  and  high,  as  that  all  over  the  earth 
kings  have  sight  of  it,  and  beneath  it,  in  its  quiet 
shade,  a  great  nation  walks  and  works  and  re- 
joices. That  is  a  metaphor,  and  would  sound 
best  in  a  speech.  But  also  it  is  true;  is  not  it? 
Well,  have  you  discovered  any  other  ancestor  in 
your  pious  search  of  the  register?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  find  that  by  an  intermarriage  there 
is  some  connection  between  me  and  one  Sir  Hum- 
phrey Coke.  But  who  Sir  Humphrey  was  I  do 
not  know.  Do  you  think  he  was  any  ancestor 
of  Mr.  George  Coke?" 

"  I  cannot  tell.  Mr.  Coke  is  a  native  of  this 
neighborhood,  but  not,  I  think,  of  this  place. 
But  as  for  lineage,  there  is  nobody  knows  what 
it  may  not  prove  for  him,  till  he  explores  it. 
Only  think  that,  five  years  ago,  the  descendant, 
the  lineal  representative,  of  the  Nevilles,  the  great 
Earls  of  Warwick,  the  king-makers,  was  discov- 
ered by  the  lawyers  sitting  on  a  shoemaker's  stall, 
at  Northampton,  all  unconscious  of  his  great- 
ness." 


A    TALE. 


X. 


THE  next  morning  after  the  preceding  conver- 
sation, Martin  May  rode  on  the  outside  of  the 
stage  to  Drayton,  which  is  seven  miles  from 
Thorpe.  He  wanted  to  see  the  church  there. 
"  You  will  come  upon  it,"  said  the  coachman, 
"  up  that  lane,  just  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
and  fifty  yards  beyond  the  stocks." 

It  was  a  long,  low  church,  hidden  in  a  dense 
mass  of  yew-trees.  All  round,  the  churchyard 
was  thick  set  with  yews,  with  only  one  narrow 
opening  through  them  for  a  gate.  For  five 
hundred  years  and  more  must  those  trees  have 
stood  about  the  yard,  thick,  dark,  and  solemn. 
And  inside  them  stood  the  church,  mysterious, 
and  looking  as  though  there  were  lingering  about 
it  the  shadows  of  centuries  that  were  not  yet 
quite  over. 

As   it  happened,  the   church   was    open.     And 


78  THORPE, 

at  the  low  door-way  Martin  May  stooped  and 
went  in.  In  it  every  thing  looked  so  ancient,  — 
the  benches  for  the  poor,  —  the  carved  pews  for 
the  rich,  —  and  the  pulpit  for  the  clergyman,  with 
an  inscription  round  it,  in  great  gilt  letters,  denot- 
ing it  to  have  been  the  gift  of  Dame  Dorothy 
Scatcherd,  more  than  two  centuries  ago.  In  the 
windows  of  stained  glass  were  figures  of  the 
Apostles.  But  of  all  of  them  the  heads  had  been 
broken  out,  and  the  holes  been  filled  in  with  plain 
glass.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  chancel  from 
the  pulpit  stood  the  font  of  stone,  with  a  stone 
lid  over  it,  suspended  by  a  long  rusty  chain  from 
the  ceiling.  Round  the  font,  outside  it,  by  some 
Catholic  artist,  were  grotesque  carvings  of  devils 
in  trouble,  from  the  holy  water  inside ;  one 
devil  falling  head  over  heels,  —  another  grinning 
up  at  the  spectator,  —  another  catching  at  a  child 
and  missing  it,  —  and  another  in  his  rage  eating 
his  own  tail.  In  the  chancel  were  numerous 
tablets  to  the  Purefoys,  a  family  which  seemed 
to  have  been  extinct  for  a  century. 

In  one  corner  of  the  church,  near  the  chancel, 
was  a  recumbent  statue  of  Sir  Humphrey  Coke. 
By  an  inscription  on  the  tomb,  he  was  said  to 
have  been  employed  in  many  offices  of  trust, 
by  Queen  Elizabeth.  And,  beginning  from  the 


A    TALE.  79 

statue,  there  was  a  long  range  of  tablets  on  the 
wall,  ending  with  one,  very  simple  and  plain,  to 
the  memory  of  Mr.  George  Coke,  farmer.  "  The 
history  and  decline  of  the  Cokes,"  said  Martin 
May,  "it  is  all  here,  plainly  enough.  Why,  the 
cost  of  that  Sir  Humphrey's  marble  statue  would 
almost  now  be  a  fortune  for  one  of  his  descend- 
ants; if,  indeed,  there  are  any  of  them  living. 
And  I  wonder  whether  there  are." 

Just  then  came  in  the  sexton.  He  was  a 
man  with  a  low  forehead  and  a  wide  mouth ;  and 
he  wore  a  brown  smock-frock.  Martin  May  said 
to  him,  "  An  ancient  family,  —  these  Purefoys ! 
Is  it  in  existence  now  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  where  that  is,"  answered  the 
srexton.  "  If  it  were  anywhere  hereabouts,  may- 
hap I  could  tell.  Existence!  Is  it  a  borough, 
or  a  parish,  or  something  of  a  hall?  I  have 
never  heard  tell  of  it." 

"  O,  existence  is  a  very  wide,  wide  parish." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  sexton,  reflectingly.  "  How 
many  funerals  a  week,  now,  may  there  be  in  it  ?  " 

"  Innumerable." 

"  I  never  heard  of  that  number  before.  Innu- 
merable! Ah,  we  do  not  reckon  that  way  in  a 
little  place  like  this.  Do  you  know  the  sexton, 
sir,  what  his  name  is  ?  " 


80  THORPE, 

"  It  is  Time." 

"  And  does  he  dig  all  the  graves  himself  ?  " 

"  One  by  one,  he  himself  buries  every  body." 

u  Well,  now  I  get  only  a  shilling  for  a  grave. 
No  more.  And  down  by  Thompson's  tomb  it  is 
hard  digging,  very.  But  in  those  large  parishes, 
especially  in  towns,  there  is  better  payment  than 
there  is  in  a  little  place  like  this.  Now  that 
Master  Time,  —  what  do  you  think  he  gets  ?  " 

"  He  gets  it  all  his  own  way,  all  over  the 
parish,  with  every  body." 

"  Ah,  does  he  ?  Then  I  will  be  bound  that 
he  is  clerk  as  well  as  sexton." 

"  And  so  he  is.  And  he  says  Amen  at  the 
end  of  every  body." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  sexton,  enviously,  "  when  a  man 
is  clerk  it  goes  well  with  him.  He  is  not  afraid, 
then,  of  the  church-wardens.  Not  he !  They 
cannot  touch  him  any  more  than  the  parson.  I 
should  have  been  clerk  myself;  only  they  said 
I  could  not  read.  But  Jim  Stubbs,  that  is  clerk, 
does  not  read  much  better  than  I  can.  And  I 
could  have  got  young  Smithells  to  whisper  me 
just  as  Stubbs  does.  And  I  am  not  hard  of 
hearing,  as  he  is." 

"  And  so  there  are  none  of  these  Purefoys  in 
Drayton  now?  And  you  have  never  known 
any  thing  of  them  ?  " 


A    TALE.  81 

"  No !  They  must  have  left  the  parish  before 
my  time.  There  has  never  one  of  them  been  a 
piece  of  work  for  me." 

"  Martin  May  looked  up  at  one  of  the  tablets 
in  the  chancel,  and  read  aloud,  —  "  Sir  Percy 
Purefoy,  —  Hargham  Hall." 

"  Hargham  Hall,"  exclaimed  the  sexton,  "  that 
is  close  by.  It  is  where  the  Purefights  used  to 
live  a  long  while  ago.  When  I  was  a  boy,  the 
old  people  used  to  talk  about  them.  But  no- 
body does  now.  Why  they  were  called  Pure- 
fights  was  because  of  that  stone  man  in  the 
corner.  Not  that  one,  but  that  other  yonder  ! 
Seeing  is  knowing,'  they  say.  And  you  can  see 
for  yourself  that  he  has  his  sword  by  his  side, 
and  his  legs  crossed,  and  his  hands,  as  though 
he  were  praying.  And  that  is  the  reason  of  the 
name.  And  all  the  family  after  him  were  called 
Purefights.  So  you  see,  sir,  that  any  body  who 
has  ever  lived  in  this  parish  I  know  about.  But 
people  in  other  parishes  are  no  business  of  mine. 
Though  sometimes  there  will  come  a  funeral 
here  out  of  some  other  parish.  Because  it  is 
pleasant  ground  to  lie  in,  —  this  of  ours,  —  dry 
and  wholesome.  And  that  is  what  I  ought  to 
know,  for  I  have  dug  down  into  it  twelve  feet 
deep.  Twelve  feet  deep  once,  when  it  was  snow- 

6 


02  THORPE, 

ing,  I  went  down,  and  never  took  cold.  And  so 
I  can  say  that  it  is  a  dry,  comfortable  spot  for  a 
body  to  lie  in." 

"  Does  the  vicar  live  near  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  he  is  not  at  home  now.  Nor  is 
Jim  Stubbs,  that  is  the  clerk.  But  if  you  want 
them,  I  will  let  them  know.  But  a  gentleman 
like  you  will  not  want  to  have  the  banns  put 
up  to  be  read.  And  if  you  have  got  the  license, 
the  curate  at  Harling  will  come  over  and  marry 
you  at  any  time." 

"  Not  so  fast,  Mr.  Sexton !  I  am  not  in  need 
of  your  vicar's  services  at  all.  And  if  I  were  ex- 
pecting so  to  be,  I  should  rather  they  were  going 
to  be  such  services  as  you  would  yourself  share 
in." 

"  That  is  very  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  the  sex- 
ton, lifting  his  hand  to  the  place  where  the  rim 
of  his  round  hat  would  have  been,  if  he  had 
had  it  on. 

"  But  I  belong  as  yet  to  the  wide  parish  of 
Existence.  And  invisibly,  yet  I  hope  quite  cer- 
tainly, there  are  round  about  me  the  walls  of  the 
Church  of  Christ.  And  sometimes  there  are  thun- 
dered at  me  sermons  from  on  high,  higher  than 
this  pulpit;  and  at  other  times  there  are  such 
soft,  sweet  words  for  my  hearing,  that  my  soul 


A    TALE.  83 

in  me  melts  at  them.  And  these  discourses  I 
have  to  listen  to  for  some  time  yet,  I  hope. 
And  then  at  last  that  sexton  Time  will  dig  my 
place  for  me  somewhere." 

"  Would  not  you  like,  sir,  to  come  into  the 
vestry  ?  " 

In  the  vestry,  on  a  shelf,  were  a  few  books. 
And  one  of  them  was  a  volume  of  Fox's  Book 
of  Martyrs,  with  the  chain  yet  hanging  to  it,  by 
which  it  was  once  fastened  in  some  public  place 
for  public  reading,  agreeably  to  an  act  of  Parlia- 
ment of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

While  Martin  May  was  looking  at  this  old 
volume,  a  lady  came  in  at  the  vestry-door.  But 
on  seeing  a  stranger  there,  she  retired  quickly. 
In  the  door-way  she  dropped  her  purse.  Martin 
May  picked  it  up,  and  half  way  down  the  aisle 
overtook  the  owner,  and  restored  it  to  her,  and 
said,  "  I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  I  hinder  your  busi- 
ness here.  I  have  none  myself;  and  I  am  just 
now  leaving.  Will  you  excuse  me  ?  I  should 
like  to  ask  you  one  question,  about  these  tablets; 
because  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  inquire 
of  the  sexton.  Are  there  any  of  this  family  of 
Coke  surviving  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  one  or  two." 

"And  belonging  to  Manchester,  either  of  them?" 


84  THORPE, 

"  I  think  so  —  perhaps  —  yes.  But  I  have  been 
a  stranger  here  for  many  years." 

"  Mr.  George  Coke,  who  has  some  connection 
with  Thorpe,  and  who  is  very  ill  there  just  now ; 
is  he  one  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  lady,  faintly,  and  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  benches. 

Martin  May  returned  to  the  vestry  for  his  hat. 
The  lady  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  She 
was  between  thirty  and  forty  years  of  age.  Her 
voice  was  expressive  of  melancholy  and  great 
tenderness.  While  speaking,  she  had  a  very 
sweet  smile.  But  it  seemed  as  though  common- 
ly she  might  have  that  irresolute,  absent  look, 
which  belongs  to  those  persons  who  have  long 
had  their  life  of  thought  separated  from  their 
Hfe  of  action. 

The  lady  had  dropped  her  veil  before  her  face, 
while  Martin  May  was  in  the  vestry.  He  was 
returning  down  the  aisle,  and  was  bowing  to  the 
lady,  as  he  passed,  when  she  addressed  him  in  a 
hesitating  way,  "  You  said,  sir,  that  he  —  that  the 
gentleman  —  that  Mr.  George  was  at  Thorpe,  ill." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  very  ill  he  has  been.  Though 
now  he  is  getting  better;  and  will  recover,  it  is 
said." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for 
your  politeness." 


A    TALE.  85 

Martin  May  passed  on,  and  went  out  of  the 
church,  unknowing  of  what  he  had  done.  When 
he  emerged  from  the  low  portal  into  the  sun- 
shine, and  stood  among  the  graves  that  were 
fenced  round  by  the  ancient  yew-trees  so  sombre 
and  dense,  he  said  to  himself,  "  They  rot  here, 
one  on  the  top  of  another,  perhaps  thirty  genera- 
tions of  people,  —  men  of  yesterday,  and  also  men 
of  long  ago,  —  valiant  archers,  to  whom  these 
yew-trees  yielded  bows  for  the  fight  and  then 
shadows  for  their  graves.  And  yet,  with  slight 
differences,  it  is  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again,  our  human  life." 

He  looked  up  at  the  dial  over  the  church-door, 
and  he  saw  by  the  index  that  it  was  exactly 
mid-day.  And  then  he  noticed  that,  sculptured 
in  stone,  outside  of  the  dial,  and  coiled  round  it, 
there  was  drawn  a  serpent,  the  old  symbol  of 
eternity.  And  he  said,  "  Yes,  it  is  as  Mr.  Lin- 
gard  says.  Our  lives  are  rounded  by  eternity, 
and  to  be  perfected  so.  And  shone  upon  by  the 
Sun  of  Righteousness,  always  on  the  dial  of  life 
the  index  points  to  the  hours,  and  also  beyond 
them,  and  into  infinity.  Courage,  my  soul,  cour- 
age ! " 


THORPE, 


XI. 


AT  night  Mr.  Coke  had  a  dream.  He  dreamed 
he  was  out  of  doors  at  midnight,  sitting  on  a 
rock,  and  trying  to  pray,  but  unable  to.  Pray 
he  could  not ;  but  could  only  think  strange, 
wild  thoughts  of  God.  At  last  he  stood  up  with 
tears  on  his  face.  And  he  cried  in  agony,  "«O 
God,  I  cannot  pray.  And  if  I  bow  down  at  the 
steps  of  thy  throne,  and  lay  hold  of  them,  it  is 
only  to  have  my  heart  harden  in  me  and  blas- 
pheme, in  spite  of  my  will.  O,  strike  conviction 
into  me,  though  it  be  ever  so  awfully,  my  God, 
my  God!" 

Then  suddenly,  from  out  of  a  fiery  opening  in 
the  sky  above  him,  there  darted  lightning.  He 
raised  his  hand  towards  it,  as  though  to  accept 
God's  answer  to  him,  awful  as  it  seemed.  But 
in  its  swift  descent  the  fiery  shaft  curled  into  a 
circle,  and  fell  upon  his  head,  and  rested  on  it, 
like  a  crown  of  glory. 


A    TALE.  87 

Then  from  underneath  him  the  ground  was 
lifted  up.  And  all  things  round  him  were  light; 
and  things  afar  off  were  as  plain  to  see  as  those 
close  by  him.  And  from  his  eminence  he  could 
see  a  long  track :  and  it  was  that  of  his  walk  in 
life.  And  as  he  looked  along  it,  there  seemed 
to  arise  from  along  side  of  it  things  that  were 
all  formless,  only  that  they  could  spread  wings 
to  hover  on.  And  sometimes  they  seemed  dark, 
and  sometimes  as  white  as  light.  But  at  last, 
altogether,  they  all  appeared  like  forms  of  bright- 
ness. And  then  from  one  place  and  another  they 
cried  aloud,  "  We  are  the  accidents  you  have  un- 
dergone in  life.  We  cursed  you  once,  but  now 
we  bless."  And  then  from  all  along  the  path, 
like  one  voice,  they  cried,  "  But  now  we  bless." 

And  then  the  dreamer  knelt  and  worshipped 
God.  And  his  soul  felt  as  though  pervaded  with 
infinite  trust.  And  with  his  great  joy  he  awoke. 
But  even  when  he  was  awake,  it  felt  to  him  as 
though  his  soul  had  been  realizing  other  than 
human  relationships.  And  there  remained  on 
his  mind  a  feeling  of  wonder  and  solemn  expec- 
tation. 


88  THORPE, 


XII. 

ON  the  first  day  of  September  the  minister 
sat  with  Mr.  Coke. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Lingard.  You  are  very  kind. 
Will  you  ring  the  bell?  Mrs.  Gentle  shall  put 
the  flowers  into  water." 

"  A  curious  inkstand,  this ! " 

"  I  had  it  when  a  school-boy,  —  a  gift  from 
my  father.  And  I  believe  once  it  was  my  grand- 
father's. You  look  surprised  ;  and  you  wonder 
I  have  not  a  new  inkstand  every  year,  —  a  Re- 
former like  me.  But  that  quotation  of  yours 
yesterday,  about  understanding  a  character  by 
some  trifle,  —  it  is  not  true.  Our  souls  do  not 
open  like  blossoms  :  and  indeed  they  are  not 
flowers  at  all.  You  are  something  of  a  botanist, 
and  you  can  guess  at  a  blossom  from  a  single 
leaf.  But  you  cannot  divine  a  character  from  a 
word,  one  action,  or  a  single  trait." 


A    TALE.  89 

"  Why,  no !  For  certainly  I  should  have  said 
this  old  inkstand  was  a  testimony  of  your  con- 
servatism." 

"  And  what  does  it  mean,  that  for  years  that 
inkstand  has  stood  on  my  dressing-table  ;  and 
that  now  I  have  it  in  the  parlor?" 

"  In  sickness  often  I  notice  that  thoughts  of 
the  past  come  thronging  on  a  man,  sweet  and 
beautiful  and  welcome.  And  so  I  suppose  it 
means " 

"  It  is  the  only  inkstand  I  have  got.  Because 
yesterday  my  other  one  was  broken.  Pardon  my 
interrupting  you.  You  had  just  said  a  true 
thing  ;  and  you  were  going  on  to  something  per- 
haps false." 

"  That  new  volume,  —  you  have  been  reading 
it?  What  is  it?" 

"Nothing.  I  have  just  looked  into  it;  and  I 
see  it  is  nothing.  Of  books  of  sentiment  there 
are  very  few  I  can  read  now.  Can  you  tell  me 
why?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  because  now  you  are  so  ear- 
nest, and  they  are  not." 

"  Shakspeare,  —  do  you  call  him  earnest  ? 
For  even  now  I  read  him  with  as  much  satis- 
faction as  almost  any  author.  But  while  I  say 
this,  I  am  not  unmindful  of  the  Scriptures.  For 


90  THORPE, 

I  think  the  Bible  is  very  properly  not  called  a 
book,  but  the  Bible,  the  book.  The  reasons  for 
this  you  know  better  than  I  do.  Myself,  I  can 
only  say  what  I  feel.  And  I  say  that  the  Old 
Testament  transcends  Shakspeare,  more  than  the 
great  dramatist  does  a  mob  of  writers.  And  I 
believe  I  should  feel  this,  and  say  it,  even  if  I 
were  a  Hindoo,  or  a  French  infidel,  the  son  of  an 
infidel." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  the  min- 
ister. "  I  mean  that  I  am  glad  to  have  my  judg- 
ment in  one  respect  confirmed  by  the  opinion 
of  a  man  of  your  character,  —  a  merchant  and 
a  politician,  and  not  a  theologian.  It  is  held 
out  to  me  by  a  hand  from  heaven,  —  the  Bible. 
And  so  always  there  is  on  my  soul  a  Divine 
awe,  as  I  read  it.  But  yet  I  think,  did  it  lie  on 
my  table  for  me  to  peruse  only  like  any  other 
book,  I  should  feel  that  it  was  so  much  superior 
to  Plato  or  Shakspeare  as  to  be  still  The  Book. 
Because  the  various  portions  of  it,  even  for  mere 
style,  are  so  good,  so  wonderfully  good.  Pen  and 
ink  now  do  not  suffice  for  such  a  transcript  of 
the  soul.  In  reading  Isaiah,  I  think  sometimes 
I  have  his  likeness,  as  though  in  a  crystal  well, 
which  he  was  bending  over  with  his  prophet's 
eyes  to  search.  And  the  Psalms,  —  they  are  liv- 


A    TALE.  91 

ing  piety,  and  not  merely  the  prayers  and  med- 
itations of  dead  men.  You  can  now  even  hear 
David's  voice  in  them  sobbing  and  mourning, 
and  growing  firm  and  clear,  and  at  last  joyous. 
O,  it  is  very  wonderful !  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  and  I  have  felt  it  so 
latterly  more  than  ever  in  my  life  before.  I  think, 
sir,  in  sickness,  one  gets  an  ear,  some  inward  ear 
opened.  It  would  seem  to  be  so  with  myself. 
And  to  this  inward  ear  of  mine  many  and  many 
a  popular  book  is  dumb,  speechless ;  and  so  is 
what  I  cannot  read." 

"  A  circumstance,"  said  the  minister,  "  a  cir- 
cumstance that  is  significant  for  the  soul  of  the 
new  world  she  is  growing  heir  to.  And  it  sug- 
gests, sir,  does  not  it,  that  a  man  ought  to  set 
himself  right  with  his  fellow-creatures,  and  in  all 
his  earthly  relations,  when  he  knows  by  his  feel- 
ings that  he  will  soon  cease  to  be  of  the  earth." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ;  that  I  ought  to  make 
my  will  ?  I  have  done  it.  For  I  am  not  so  fool- 
ish as  to  delay  making  my  will  till  I  should  be 
likely  to  dictate  it  on  the  prompting  of  some 
nurse,  or  some  whim,  or  some  sick  prejudice.  I 
have  made  my  will." 

"  And  forgiven  your  enemies  ?  " 

"  I  have  none  that  I  know  of,  —  not  enemies. 


92  THORPE, 

For  it  is  not  me  my  opponents  hate,  but  my 
politics,  my  work." 

"  I  had  fancied,"  said  the  minister,  "  you  might 
have  had  much  to  forgive,  very  likely.  Why  I 
thought  so  I  do  not  know.  But  I  am  glad  I 
have  been  mistaken,  —  very  glad." 

"  Well  now,  what  else  have  you  fancied  in  me, 
and  then  found  you  were  mistaken  in  it?  I 
should  like  to  know,  as  a  matter  of  curiosity." 

"  A  self-accusing  state  of  mind,  betokened,  I 
have  thought,  by  a  suppressed  groan  now  and 
then,  a  look  I  could  not  account  for,  and  now 
and  then  by  some  sentiment,  which  did  not 
sound  from  you  like  the  merely  pious  expression 
of  humility  it  might  have  been  in  the  mouth 
of  some  other  person." 

"  Well,  and  on  further  knowledge  of  me " 

"  I  seem  to  have  been  mistaken  altogether,  and 
never  more  thoroughly  so  in  my  life." 

"  Shall  I  trouble  you  to  shut  the  door,  Mr. 
Lingard?  I  am  growing  old  in  my  legs,  or  else 
very  young;  for  they  do  not  carry  me  well  now." 

"  You  are  always  so  cheerful  with  your  illness." 

"  But  really  I  feel  impatience  only  too  often. 
And  do  not  you  ever  detect  it  ?  " 

"  Never,  in  word,  or  gesture,  or  tone.  Never 
once  have  I  heard  you  complain." 


A    TALE.  93 

"  Complain !  No.  And  no  merit  in  me,  either. 
Me!  It  is  not  for  me  to  complain  of  sickness, 
—  this  suffering.  O  God,  not  for  me!  Even 
the  gentle  relief  there  is  in  a  sigh,  is  what  I  have 
no  right  to.  Not  I !  Ah  no  !  Complaint,  —  in 
me  it  would  be  a  sin  there  is  no  word  for ;  at 
least  none  that  I  know  of.  A  sin  there  is  no 
word  for!  And  yet,  Mr.  Lingard,  in  me  there 
is  room  for  it." 

"But  not  admission.  That  I  am  sure  of. 
Though  I  will  confess  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  And  yet  it  would  seem  that  once  you  thought 
you  did.  But  for  my  part,  I  do  not  know  myself. 
Circumstances,  —  some  noticeable  action,  —  a  pe- 
riod of  life,  —  a  position,  —  will  offer  you  the  look 
of  a  man,  just  as  a  mirror  will.  But  the  man 
himself  is  invisible,  aback  of  his  actions  and  his 
looks.  I  look  in  the  glass;  and  I  see  myself?  O, 
no !  I  see  a  form  once  straight  and  strong,  and  a 
face  rather  long  and  sad;  austere  perhaps  " 

"  And  not  unmajestic." 

"  And  eyes  dark  and  resolute " 

"  And  earnest.  And  now  and  then  there  is 
an  expression  on  your  face,  transient  and  strange- 
ly spiritual,  and  betokening  that,  while  looking 
at  your  leger,  your  thoughts  are  not  uniformly 
of  merchandise." 


94  THORPE, 

"  Ah !   you  would  say  it  meant  what  ?  " 

"  That  there  is  something  earnest,  some  rec- 
ollection or  hope  that  passes  through  your  mind 
often,  but  whether  always  without  pain  I  do  not 
know.  Nay,  it  may  be  I  ought  to  know.  Pardon 
me :  for  I  did  not  mean  to  distress  you.  And 
I  am  sure  I  must  have  said  something  wrong." 

This  the  minister  said  by  way  of  letting  the 
sick  man  recover  from  his  emotion.  And  for  the 
same  reason  he  continued  thus:  "But,  indeed, 
with  much  reading  I  have  forgotten  well  how  to 
talk.  And  perhaps  I  have  lost  something  of  dis- 
cernment and  discretion  that  might  have  been 
serviceable  among  my  friends,  because,  as  Roger 
Ascham  said  of  himself,  I  have  been  a  looker- 
on  in  the  cockpit  of  learning  these  many  years. 
But  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Coke,  if  I 
have  said  any  thing  to  pain  you ;  for  it  has  not 
been  intentionally." 

"  There  is  a  subject,  Mr.  Lingard,  on  which  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you :  and  I  will  do  so  just  now. 
You  have  my  confidence.  And  my  heart  has 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  when  you  have  uncov- 
ered it,  as  more  than  once  you  have,  in  talking 
with  me.  Ah,  no,  Mr.  Lingard,  we  do  not  know 
one  another,  even  when  we  think  we  do,  most 
intimately.  You  know  this  wasted  frame  of 


A    TALE.  95 

mine,  and  my  voice,  and  what  is  occasionally 
my  abrupt  manner.  But  you  do  not  know  what 
fountains  of  feeling,  once  copious,  are  now  sealed 
in  me.  To  the  outward  world  I  am  resolute,  de- 
cisive :  but  in  the  inner  world  I  am  surrounded 
with  terrors,  and  awful  recollections,  and  memo- 
ries that  are  like  the  ghosts  of  dead  hopes,  and 
words  that  sound  unendurably.  And  sometimes 
among  these  I  am  not  what  I  am  on  the  ex- 
change or  the  platform,  but  a  poor  creature, — 
a  creature  of  misgivings  and  fears  and  griefs." 

"  Often,"  said  the  minister,  "  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  every  man,  were  the  inmost  chamber  of 
his  thoughts  thrown  open  to  some  friend.  For 
sometimes  it  happens,  that  in  our  minds  there 
will  harbor  unreasonable  fancies,- terrific  notions, 
of  which  a  friend  would  free  us  with  a  word, 
though  ourselves  we  may  be  quite  impotent  against 
them." 

«  So  I  think." 

"  As  Pythagoras  said,  eat  not  thy  heart.  It  is 
ill  food,  and  suicidal.  You  stare;  but  indeed  it 
is  suicidal,  as  I  could  show  you  by  many  ex- 
amples, and  from  the  nature  of  the  soul  as  so- 
cial. I  remember  something  of  Bacon's.  It  is 
to  this  effect :  —  You  may  take  sarza  to  open  the 
liver,  and  prepared  steel  to  open  the  lungs,  and 


96  THORPE, 

•castor  for  the  brain ;  but  for  opening  the  obstruc- 
tions of  the  heart,  there  is  no  medicine  found 
besides  a  faithful  friend,  to  whom  you  may  im- 
part griefs,  joys,  fears,  hopes,  suspicions,  and 
cares,  under  the  secrecy,  as  it  were,  of  a  confes- 
sion." 

"  Your  reading  has  been  to  good  purpose,  Mr. 
Lingard.  It  serves  you  well.  I  was  thinking 
so,  yesterday.  It  seems  as  though  always  there 
were  a  ghostly  library  about  you,  from  the  invisible 
shelves  of  which  memory  reaches  you  any  book 
you  want,  open  at  the  right  place  for  quoting." 

"  O,  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  You  have  lived  very  much  alone,  yet  you 
know  men  well.  And  this  town  is  but  a  quiet 
place ;  and  you  seldom  go  out  of  it." 

"  But  I  have  my  own  heart  to  talk  with.  And 
one  time,  the  flesh  prompts  me;  and  another 
time,  the  Holy  Spirit  enlightens  me.  And  al- 
ways within  sight  there  are  men  and  women  and 
children  for  me  to  watch.  Yet  it  is  a  quiet  town, 
this.  Though  it  might  be  much  smaller  than 
it  is,  and  yet  yield  more  wisdom  than  the  city, 
with  its  vastness  and  excitement  and  fresh  news 
every  day.  Said  Sir  Thomas  Palmer,  when  he 
was  brought  out  on  to  the  scaffold,  '  I  have  learned 
more  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  Tower,  than  in 
travelling  round  Europe.'" 


A    TALE.  97 

«  Well  said ! " 

"  It  is  true  not  only  of  books,  but  also  of  the 
ways  of  the  city,  those  of  business  and  manners, 
as  Selden  said,  that  no  man  is  the  wiser  for 
learning." 

"  Good ! " 

"  It  ^is  a  small  place,  —  this  town.  But  I  can 
say  that,  like  Fletcher  of  Madeley,  I  have  an  ad- 
vantage here,  which  I  could  not  have  to  a  similar 
degree  in  a  larger  place.  For  as  he  said  of  him- 
self to  a  friend,  so  I  say  to  you,  that  my  little  field 
of  action  is  just  at  my  door ;  so  that,  if  I  hap- 
pen to  overdo  myself,  I  have  but  a  step  from 
my  pulpit  to  my  bed,  and  from  my  bed  to  my 
grave." 

"  That  is  pleasantly,  sweetly  said." 

"  Here,  in  this  town,  we  live  along  side  of  our 
graves.  But  in  the  city  it  is  otherwise.  Indeed, 
I  know  some  towns  a  man  might  live  in  and 
never  see  a  grave.  But  in  this  little  town,  here 
are  two  graveyards,  —  spots  of  awful  silence 
among  us,  —  solemn,  thoughtful  places  to  walk 
in.  As  you  know,  I  myself  live  along  side  the 
graveyard.  But,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  I  think 
it  is  a  virtuous  help  to  have  it  made  visible 
how  close  against  the  grave  is  every  man's  walk 
in  life." 

7 


98  THORPE, 

"  Mr.  Lingard,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  "  I  am  dying  by  a  death  that  is  not 
quite  free  from  the  guilt  of  suicide."  , 

"  Suicide !  Not  that !  You  cannot  mean  that. 
My  dear  sir,  you  are  dying  of  consumption ;  as 
I  have  long  supposed  you  would.  But  you  are 
very  feverish ;  are  not  you,  very  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not ;  not  at  all.  O  merciful  God, 
be  merciful  to  me." 

"  That  you  said "  just  now,  you  were  dying 
of " 

"  Was  —  was  suicide.  There !  I  have  said  it 
once  more.  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me ! " 

"  Mr.  Coke,  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  said 
the  minister  in  a  soothing  tone. 

"  Ten  years  ago  I  was  engaged  to  a  lady  to 
be  married." 

"  And  the  lady  died  ?  " 

"  No,  she  is  living  now.  I  was  in  business 
in  Manchester,  not  as  a  partner  with  others, 
but  altogether  on  my  own  account.  Through 
years  of  adversity,  at  last  I  had  risen  into  a 
prosperous  position.  One  morning,  —  it  was  a 
Saturday,  —  a  dull,  foggy  day  in  February,  —  I 
remember  it  all  so  well,  —  how  it  was  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day,  and  the  gas  was  lit,  —  how  my 
desk  stood, —  and  how  there  lay  on  it  a  book, 


A    TALE.  99 

and  four  or  five  letters,  and  a  sample  of  cotton, — 
and  how  there  came  to  me  a  merchant.  He  gave 
me  his  name.  I  remembered  to  have  heard  it 
before.  For  testimony  as  to  his  trustworthiness, 
he  referred  me  to  a  mercantile  company  of 
some  eminence,  and  till  then  of  high  character. 
By  them  I  was  induced  to  execute  for  the  man 
a  large  order  for  goods.  It  was  a  swindling 
transaction.  And  in  two  days  I  knew  that  I  was 
a  ruined  man." 

"  A  ruined    merchant,   Mr.    Coke,     but    not    a 
ruined  man;    that  you  never  could  have  been." 

"  Ah,   the   old  mistake   again !     But  I  made  it 
in  a  worse   way   before.     I   felt  myself  a  ruined 

man,   or   my   pride   did.     And   so  —  and   so 

On  Thursday  I  met  the  father  of  my  betrothed. 
There  was  conversation  between  us.  How  it 
reached  the  conclusion  I  do  not  know.  But  it 
was  this,  —  that  I  was  too  poor  for  his  daughter. 
About  ten  days  afterwards  I  received  a  letter 
from  him,  in  which  he  complimented  me  on  my 
honorable  conduct,  and  said  he  supposed  I  should 
be  glad  to  learn  that  his  daughter  had  quite  re- 
covered her  cheerfulness,  although  for  two  or  three 
days  she  had  been  distressed  at  the  position  in 
which  she  had  been  placed  by  my  misfortune. 
With  that  letter  I  became  desperate.  There  was 


100  THORPE, 

not  a  human  being  I  cared  for.  Such  a  silent 
scorn  as  I  had  even  for  the  kind  words  of  my 
friends!  Though,  indeed,  they  were  not  many. 
I  became  impatient  of  life.  I  was  travelling, 
and  I  got  wet  through.  At  night  I  laid  my 
clothes  beside  my  bed,  and  in  the  morning  I  put 
them  on,  wet  as  they  were.  That  morning  I 
said  no  prayer.  A  godless,  reckless  day  it  was ! 
I  knew  what  I  was  doing;  for  I  believed  that 
I  might  perhaps  be  bringing  on  my  death.  And 
from  that  time  to  this  I  have  been  in  a  con- 
sumption. All  these  years!" 

"  Years  of  repentance,  I  know  they  have  been, 
—  must  have  been,  —  a  repentance  that  has  been 
acceptance  with  God,  I  am  sure." 

"  Not  a  morning  or  evening  ever  since,  but  I 
have  prayed  to  be  forgiven.  And  I  trust  I  am 
forgiven.  Through  Christ  I  must  hope  so,  must 
believe  so,  and  am  bound  to  think  so.  But  oh ! 
it  clings  to  me,  —  the  awful  recollection.  And 
it  disgusts  me  with  myself.  That  crime,  —  I 
cannot  undo  it,  I  cannot  wipe  it  from  my  history. 
And  it  is  on  me  and  with  me  for  ever." 

Here  the  minister  rose  and  walked  across  the 
room  two  or  three  times. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  sick  man,  "  I  see  I  have  sur- 
prised you  with  my  confession,  and  perhaps  re- 


A    TALE.  101 

volted  you.  But  what  I  have  said  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you,  for  I  have  never  uttered  it 
yet  any  way  but  in  prayer.  But  you  are  sur- 
prised   " 

"  Well,  I  am  so ;  but  even  more  at  your  tears 
than  your  words.  For  I  was  not  sure  you  could 
weep." 

"  In  all  my  life,  this  sin  was  the  first  thing  I 
ever  wept  for.  No  disappointment,  nor  loss, 
nor  bereavement,  nor  unfaithful  friend,  but  only 
this  sin  first  drew  tears  from  me." 

"  And  so  drew  you  to  be  human.  And  was 
it  not  so,  that  with  those  first  tears  you  felt 
yourself  another  creature  ?  Easily  I  can  tell 
what  you  were  once.  Innocent  and  proud  of 
your  innocence,  —  erect  both  in  body  and  mind, 
and  haughty,  —  free  from  every  weakness  your- 
self, and  impatient  of  it  in  others,  —  so  correct 
that  you  had  no  consciousness  of  sin,  —  and  — 
shall  I  say  it? — so  self-righteous,  you  felt  no 
abasement  before  God's  holy  eye,  and  little  need 
of  Jesus  as  a  Mediator!  Strong,  and  resolute, 
and  moral,  and  self-confident,  you  walked  the 
world,  listening  to  the  echoes  of  your  own  foot- 
steps, —  without  sin  almost,  and  almost  with- 
omt  God  in  the  world.  I  say  it  was  so ;  was  it 
not  ?  " 


102  THORPE, 

"I  am  afraid  it  was.  And  indeed  you  have 
been  correctly  informed." 

"  Informed  !  Not  I !  But  of  myself  I  can 
well  suppose  what  you  must  have  been  once,  — 
before  that  voice  of  yours  had  ever  trembled  with 
misery  or  prayer." 

"  God  pardon  me!  I  trust  he  will.  Because, 
for  years  and  years,  it  has  been  my  prayer  ev- 
ery day,  and  at  some  seasons  every  hour  of  the 
day,  almost.  And  sometimes  I  have  thought 
it  was  forgiven  me,  —  this  sin.  But  then,  again, 
at  other  times  it  would  seem  so  hateful,  horrid, 
—  this  recollection  of  sin  clinging  to  me." 

"  Pride,  pride !  Mr.  Coke,  in  your  state  of 
feeling  on  this  matter,  there  is  not  a  little  pride. 
Fain  would  man  be  self-righteous,  unknowing 
of  this,  —  that  there  is  a  higher  virtue  than  can  al- 
together begin  and  be  sustained  from  within  his 
own  heart,  —  the  holiness  of  a  soul  that  has  gone 
through  sin  into  the  sense  of  infinite  need,  and 
so  forward  to  Christ  and  salvation  by  grace." 

"  There  seems  a  black  cloud  moving  off  my 
soul.  And  this  instant  I  am  happier  than  I  have 
been  for  ten  years.  But  O,  sir,  that  day,  that 
reckless,  wicked  day !  I  must  not  wish  it  blotted 
out  of  my  life,  I  suppose.  But  O  my  miseiy 
at  that  time !  Out  in  the  street,  it  was  as  though 


A    TALE.  103 

every  body  were  looking  at  me  as  a  ruined  man. 
And  by  the  fireside,  all  the  sweet  thoughts  I  had 
had  for  months  seemed  to  mock  me,  every  one 
of  them.  From  behind,  the  past  pressed  against 
me,  like  a  weight  of  misery;  and  before  me,  the 
future  was  darkness  there  seemed  no  way  to 
walk  in.  And  so  that  action,  —  that  wickedness 
that  was  *  not  without  a  thought  of  self-mur- 
der   " 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  minister,  "  do  not  call  it 
so,  Mr.  Coke,  I  will  not  have  you  call  it  so. 
Though  I  would  not  have  you  extenuate  the 
guilt  of  it.  Yet  I  suppose  it  would  not  have 
happened  had  she  been  true  to  you,  —  your  — 
I  mean  your  betrothed." 

"  She  was  not  otherwise  than  true.  O,  do  not 
blame  her.  I  never  have  for  a  moment,  or  in 
one  thought.  Whatever  was  blamable,  if  any 
thing  were,  was  between  me  and  her  father;  and 
perhaps  it  was  more  with  me  than  him,  or  even 
altogether  with  me.  My  pride,  —  I  do  not 
know  how  it  spoke,  nor  what  it  said.  All  I  re- 
member is  the  spot  I  stood  on,  and  the  weight 
of  woe  that  fell  upon  me,  as  he,  her  father, 
turned  and  left  me.  It  was  woe  on  woe  upon 
me,  and  intolerable  I  thought.  Yet  what  was 
it?  It  was  nothing,  almost  nothing  as  a  weight 


104  THORPE, 

to  what  has  borne  upon  me  since,  walking  or 
sitting,  —  this  —  this  remembrance  of  what  I 
have  told  you.  There  is  seldom  a  morning,  on 
my  waking,  but  this  comes  to  me  horrid  and 
fresh,  as  though  it  were  yesterday's  wickedness." 

"  Will  you  have  a  little  water,  Mr.  Coke  ? 
You  remember  what  I  said  about  your  being  led 
to  Christ  and  holiness,  through  first  being  con- 
vinced of  sin.  I  would  ask  you  to  think  of  it,  — 
and  also  I  could  wish  you  to  read  one  or  two 
pages  of  St.  Augustine.  In  some  features  of 
character  I  think  you  may  resemble  him.  A 
Manichean  once,  and  a  wanderer  in  sin  and  soph- 
istry for  fifteen  years,  he  became  at  last  a  Chris- 
tian and  a  bishop.  By  the  Catholic  Church  he 
has  been  canonized  as  a  saint,  and  been  reck- 
oned one  of  the  four  great  doctors.  And  by 
painters  he  has  had  given  him  for  his  symbol 
a  flaming  heart." 

"  Patience    with   our    sins,  —  I    have    heard   of 

that  phrase.      And   I    think   I  begin  to    discern 

• 
some  meaning  in  it." 

The  minister  continued,  "  Temptation,  sin,  re- 
morse, an  agony  of  helplessness,  then  Christ  as 
a  resource,  repentance,  and  reconciliation  to  God, 
—  that  is  the  process  which  many  a  soul  goes 
through,  and  by  which  often  it  proves  that  the 


A    TALE.  105 

Christian  Stoic  becomes  Christian  truly,  and  has 
his  soul  grow  in  grace,  and  open  freshly  and 
largely  into  the  feelings  of  reverence,  awe,  and 
mystery,  trust  and  love,  patience,  resignation  and 
hope.  There  is  a  sense  in  which  it  may  be  said 
that  Christianity  begins  from  the  consciousness 
of  sin.  And  that  feeling  most  commonly  be- 
gins from  some  particular  act;  though  it  may, 
and  with  some  persons  it  does,  rise  in  the  heart 
of  itself,  —  as  though  from  a  man's  hating  him- 
self for  what  he  must  look  in  the  eye  of  God. 
The  consciousness  of  sin,  —  a  dark  and  awful 
passage,  —  not  without  lightnings  that  flash  in 
it,  and  terrible  voices  that  whisper  and  roar  along 
it,  and  dishearten  and  distract  and  appall!  But 
it  emerges  in  a  serene  region  of  lowliest  wor- 
ship and  loftiest  virtue." 


106  THORPE, 


XIII. 

SARAH  BURTENSHAW  had  arrived  in  London  and 
been  domesticated  there  a  little  while,  when 
there  arrived  the  following  letter,  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  at  the  Parsonage :  — 

"  I  write  to  you,  with  my  best  respects.  I  got 
to  London  quite  safely.  O,  what  a  large  place 
it  is !  And  there  is  such  a  noise !  And  there 
are  carts  and  coaches  and  omnibuses,  more  than 
I  should  have  thought  there  had  been  in  all  the 
world.  But  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all  is, 
that  you  put  your  ashes  and  sweepings  out  at  the 
door,  and  there  comes  a  dustman  and  takes  them 
away  in  his  cart.  And  no  trouble  to  you  at  all ! 
In  our  house  there  is  a  lodger.  And  he  is  so 
like  Mr.  Coke,  only  smaller,  that  I  think  he  must 
be  his  brother.  But  it^seems  astonishing,  all  this 
way  off,  to  meet  with  any  body  one  had  ever 
known  before.  Not  that  I  had  ever  known  Mr. 


A    TALE.  107 

Coke  before;  for  I  had  not.  O,  I  forgot  to  say, 
his  name  is  Coke.  Such  a  sweet,  good  gentle- 
man !  And  he  does  nothing  at  all  but  read. 
And  such  a  quantity  of  books  he  has !  Almost  as 
many  as  the  minister!  From  what  I  heard  my 
master  telling  some  one  at  dinner  once,  1  sup- 
pose he  was  to  have  been  a  clergyman.  But  he 
would  not  take  orders.  But  I  should  not  have 
'  thought  he  would  have  minded  doing  that,  as 
he  is  a  very  quiet  gentleman.  But  nobody  likes 
being  ordered  about,  at  first,  I  suppose ;  though 
afterwards  it  comes  easier.  Some  time  when  I 
have  got  to  know  him  better,  I  shall  ask  him 
whether  he  knows  any  body  at  Thorpe.  But  at 
present  I  am  afraid  to.  I  often  think  of  what 
you  told  me.  And  I  remember  the  minister 
every  time  I  see  the  workbox.  And  often  I  pray 
for  him,  at  night,  as  I  ought  to.  I  try  not  to 
think  about  it,  else  often  I  should  cry,  because 
I  cannot  be  at  Thorpe.  London  is  a  very  grand 
place,  but  home  is  home,  though  it  be  ever  so 
homely.  I  should  often  wish  I  could  come  and 
see  you,  in  a  nrf  evening ;  but,  as  father  often  said, 
wishes  never  can  fill  a  sack.  Though  I  hope  it 
is  all  for  my  good." 

This  letter  Mrs.    Satterthwaite   took  up*  stairs 
to    the  '  minister   in    his   study.       She   saw  that 


108  THORPE, 

he  had  a  pen  in  his  hand,  and  was  occupied 
with  thought,  so  she  laid  the  letter  on  the  ta- 
ble beside  his  desk,  and  retired  without  speak- 
ing. 


A    TALE.  109 


XIV. 

AGAIN  the  minister  sat  at  his  breakfast-table: 
and  again  his  cup  of  tea  was  cold.  Again  he 
had  lying  upon  his  knee  some  book,  which  he 
was  not  reading.  And  again  he  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  talked  with  himself,  half  aloud.  "  It 
haunts  me,  —  does  this  confession  of  Mr.  Coke's. 
All  day  yesterday  it  was  with  me.  I  was 
thinking  of  it  last  night,  when  I  went  to  sleep ; 
and  on  my  waking,  this  morning,  it  was  the 
first  thing  which  came  into  my  mind.  Those 
woful  tones,  how  they  linger  in  my  ears!  And 
what  a  sight  it  was,  —  a  man  weeping,  —  a 
proud  man,  and  a  proud-looking  man!  That 
wrong  action  which  he  confessed,  I  suppose, 
might  almost  be  called  his  one  sin ;  only  that 
our  human  nature  is  so  permeated  with  sin,  of- 
ten latent  perhaps,  but  with  every  body,  one  way 
or  another,  so  certain  to  break  out  into  action. 


110  THORPE, 

But  now  as  to  Mr.  Coke.  He  does  not  think 
about  this  sin  rightly,  though  with  the  bitterest 
repentance.  From  his  character  and  his  manner 
of  thinking,  it  is  very  certain  that  he  supposes  his 
sin  to  be  something  which  he  has  drawn  down 
upon  his  head,  and  not  what  it  really  is,  — 
a  something  which  has  been  developed  out  of 
his  own  heart,  essence  of  his  essence,  and  nature 
of  his  nature.  A  nature  all  miserable  but  for 
the  Saviour,  by  whom  we  have  redemption !  As 
to  the  sincerity  of  his  repentance,  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  And  O  what  he  must  have  passed 
through,  in'  the  seasons  of  this  long  illness,  and 
the  lonely  hours  he  has  had!  I  pity  him.  And 
yet  no;  it  is  scarcely  pity  that  I  feel.  But  I 
love  him  truly,  and  all  the  more,  the  more  I 
know  of  him.  And  he,  —  strange,  rare  excep- 
tion to  sinners,  —  almost  he  needs  to  learn  to 
compassionate  himself.  A  blighted  life!  Who 
would  have  thought  that  of  him,  who  had  seen 
him  five  years  ago,  courageous,  calm,  and  digni- 
fied? With  men  in  awe  of  him, —  subduing  a 
mob  by  the  tones  of  his  voice, —  and  frightening 
corrupt  men  with  his  glance;  who  would  have 
thought  that  himself  he  was  trembling  with  a 
recollection,  and  quailing  at  a  thought?  A  no- 
ble man,  and  all  the  dearer  to  my  regards,  if  not 


A    TALE.  Ill 

for  that  one  error  of  his,  yet  certainly  for  what 
has  followed  on  it,  —  his  agony  of  remorse, — 
his  broken  pride,  —  and  his  eye  for  the  spiritual 
growing  more  and  more  clear,  and  yet  more  and 
more  abashed  and  awe-struck.  O,  if  only  we 
knew  one  another  better !  Would  it  be  to  love 
one  another  less?  I  think  not,  but  rather  more 
tenderly.  But  would  it  be  possible  for  us  to 
understand  one  another?  Could  a  peasant  un- 
derstand a  poet,  his  fears  and  hopes,  his  rap- 
tures and  dislikes?  No,  he  could  not.  And 
how  would  it  be,  at  times  were  we  accompa- 
nied by  forms  emblematic  of  the  chief  virtues 
and  vices  of  our  lives?  Myself  how  should  I 
appear?  To  my  people,  how  should  I  look 
preaching  from  among  an  airy  cloud  of  faithful 
emblems  ?  O,  for  that  I  should  need  a  congre- 
gation of  other  hearers  than  men,  —  not  Walter 
Floresman  with  his  quick  sense  of  inconsisten- 
cies, nor  John  Lake  with  his  impatience  of  im- 
proprieties, nor  any  little  child  in  its  innocence 
and  its  healthy  horror  of  sin.  For  the  sake  of 
my  people,  O  that  I  might  sanctify  myself,  as 
well  as  inform  myself.  These  books  about  me, 
all  these  books  have  I  provided,  that  by  them 
I  may  get  knowledge.  But  for  holiness  how  am 
I  striving?  And,  indeed,  without  holiness  there 


112  THORPE, 

is  no  knowledge,  no  real  knowledge  of  the  hu- 
man heart.  And  without  it  how  shall  I  speak 
to  men's  souls?  For  though  without  holiness 
I  can  delight  men,  and  give  them  information, 
and  be  eloquent  in  their  ears;  yet  unless  my- 
self I  am  holy,  I  cannot  save  them,  cannot  help 
them  much  towards  salvation." 


A    TALE.  113 


XV. 

ONE  evening  Martin  May  sat  on  a  stile,  un- 
der an  oak-tree,  by  the  side  of  the  highway. 
And  along  the  road  came  Justice  Burleigh  in  a 
gig,  with  his  coachman  driving  him. 

The  gig  stopped  opposite  the  stile.  And  the 
Justice  called  out,  in  a  fierce  tone,  "  Are  you  the 
Yankee  that  is  staying  about  here  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  answered  Martin  May,  very  gently. 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  telling  people 
that  every  body  can  go  a  poaching  over  in  that 
country  of  yours,  wherever  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  so." 

"  O,  you  did  not?     What  did  you  say,  then  ?" 

"  Well,  I  was  talking  with  some  farmers,  one 
evening,  and  I  said  that  in  America  there  was 
no  such  thing  as  poaching.  And  I  believe  I 
may  have  said,  that  it, would  be  a  shame  if  there 

were." 

8 


114  THORPE, 

"  Eh,  what !  No  poaching  in  America !  "  ex- 
claimed the  Justice,  quite  mollified  in  his  tone. 
"  What  lies  people  tell !  Good  country  magis- 
trates, eh  ?  Active,  -eh  ?  Good,  strict  laws  against 
the  possession  of  fire-arms,  eh  ?  But  no  poach- 
ing, —  no  poaching  at  all  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  For  a  farmer,  on  his  own 
ground,  it  is  all  fair,  open  shooting,  because  there 
is  no  game-law  against  it.  On  his  own  land, 
•at  proper  times,  without  leave  or  license  from 
any  quarter,  a  man  can  kill  his  own  woodcocks 
and  eat  them,  his  own  partridges,  his  own 
quails " 

Here  the  Justice  went  crimson  in  the  face, 
and  half  rose  in  the  gig,  and  cried,  "  His  own,  — 
your  own,  —  his  own !  Who  told  you  thfey  were 
his  own  ?  Sir,  who  are  you  to  find  fault  with 
this  country  ?  What  have  we  to  do  with  your 
outlandish  notions  ?  A  vagrant,  for  all  your 
looks !  Ay,  my  fine  gentleman,  you  may  laugh, 
but  I  have  committed  better  looking  men  than 
you  before  now.  Let  me  catch  you  trespassing 
or  shooting,  and  then  you  shall  see,  or  my  name 
is  not  Burleigh.  A  pest  of  a  fellow !  You  to  be 
pretending  flaws  " 

Here  the  Justice  choked  with  rage.  And  here 
Martin  May  rose  from  his  seat,  and  advanced  a 


A    TALE.  115 

step,  and  said,  in  a  quiet  tone,  "  Flaw !  There  is 
something  of  a  flaw  in  your  title  to  Haslingden. 
And  I  can  make  it  good  with  a  name  I  have 
discovered.  I  tell  you,  because  you  are  a  kins- 
man of  mine ;  though  not  very  near,  I  am  glad 
to  say." 

Here  the  Justice  drove  off  without  a  word. 
However,  in  a  few  days  he  sent  one  of  his  game- 
keepers to  the  Dell,  with  a  present  of  a  brace 
of  pheasants  and  another  of  partridges. 


116  THORPE, 


XVI. 

ONE  afternoon  the  minister  sat  with  Mr.  Coke, 
and  after  some  conversation  with  him  on  sin 
and  its  pardon  through  Christ,  he  said,  "  A  man 
grown  humble  with  his  sin,  and  a  man  sinfully 
proud  of  his  innocence,  —  they  are  both  sinners 
before  God.  But  perhaps  the  one  will  be  saved 
through  Christ,  and  possibly  the  other  may  never 
even  learn  that  he  needs  saving." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Coke  with  a  groan,  "  that 
wilful  act  of  mine,  —  it  feels  so  unlike  any  other 
sin !  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  believe  in  the  grace 
of  God !  Not  that  I  have  not  faith  in  the  Lamb 
of  God  as  taking  away  the  sins  of  the  world! 
But  somehow  I  feel  as  though  this  sin  of  mine 
were  something  by  itself.  I  suppose  my  feeling 
about  it  is  something  morbid,  from  my  having 
kept  it  to  myself  so  long.  It  is  as  though  it 
were  a  sin  unlike  and  beyond  other  sins ;  and  as 


A    TALE. 


117 


though  by  it  there  had  been  a  line  drawn  about 
me,  between  me  and  the  common  world.  A  sin 
of  blood  or  temper  or  pressing  circumstance, — 
but  then  it  was  not  of  that  nature." 

The  minister  did  not  know  well  how  to  an- 
swer. For  he  did  not  think  it  right  ever  to  at- 
tempt to  diminish  in  any  one  the  sense  of  sin. 
And  yet  he  felt  that  properly  something  ought 
to  be  said  of  a  soothing  nature,  —  some  explana- 
tion, or  sentiment,  or  some  quieting  text  from 
Scripture.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  a  few 
moments,  in  silence ;  and  then  he  began  to  speak 
in  a  manner  like  soliloquy.  "  When  reason  fails 
a  man  in  despair,  it  is  very  dreadful ;  but  I  do 
not  know  that  really  it  should  be  sadder  than 
when  reason  fails  an  angry  man  in  his  passion ; 
and  very  certainly  it  is  not  so  sad  as  when  rea- 
son fails  a  covetous  man,  and  lets  him  live  a  mere 
money-getter ;  and  it  may  be  much  less  sad  than 
when  reason  fails  a  man  in  his  love  of  pleasure, 
and  lets  him  grow  to  be  an  old  sensualist." 

Here  the  sick  man  wiped  from  his  eyes  some 
tears  which  had  started  to  them.  The  minister 
continued,  "  There  are  some  of  the  very  happiest 
persons,  who  cannot  stand  on  a  rock,  nor  look 
down  from  a  church-steeple,  without  wishing  to 
throw  themselves  headlong.  And  there  are  some 


118  THORPE, 

high  contemplations,  on  ascending  into  which, 
some  purest  souls  could  wish  themselves  perished, 
annihilated.  This  is  strange:  but  so  also  is  our 
whole  nature,  as  soon  as  it  is  seriously  thought 
of.  Perhaps  it  is  no  very  great  wonder,  that 
now  and  then  reason  should  fail  one  of  us  ut- 
terly. For  it  is  an  event  which  has  been  left 
possible,  in  God's  making  of  the  world  and  us. 
Indeed,  it  is  for  the  trial  of  our  minds  that  very 
largely  the  world  is  what  it  is." 

The  minister  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  then 
continued,  in  a  manner  from  which  almost  it  might 
have  seemed  that  he  had  been  unconscious  of 
there  being  any  one  present  with  him,  "  Fearful 
and  wonderful  is  this  nature  of  ours,  —  flesh 
and  spirit  both,  —  body  dwelt  in  by  soul!  A  per- 
son is  master  of  other  men,  and  of  circumstances, 
and  almost  of  the  elements,  sometimes  through 
being  nervously  excited  a  little ;  but  let  that  lit- 
tle excitement  with  him  be  only  a  little  more, 
and  then  he  is  not  master  even  of  his  own  fac- 
ulties. A  man  is  himself  one  moment,  and  the 
next  moment  he  is  not  himself ;  and  perhaps 
this  difference  is  from  a  grain  of  sand,  or  from 
one  drop  of  blood,  pressing  against  a  nerve,  itself 
too  small  even  to  be  seen.  At  one  time,  thought 
flashes  in  the  mind,  like  lightning  out  of  heaven ; 


A    TALE.  119 

and  at  another  time  it  is  all  darkness  in  the 
mind,  and  merely  from  the  brain  being  a  little 
torpid.  A  man  will  be  troubled,  day  by  day, 
and  one  year  after  another,  and  be  cheerful  the 
whole  while,  as  long  as  he  is  healthy.  But  let 
him  be  ill,  and  then  he  will  be  crushed  by  per- 
haps the  lightest  of  his  former  afflictions.  A 
sudden  noise,  a  moth  in  the  dark,  some  old  word 
heard  anew,  a  curious  coincidence  of  trifles,  — 
even  these  little  things  will  startle  us.  So  that 
it  is  not  astonishing  that  sometimes  self-posses- 
sion should  quite  fail  one  of  us.  Because  itself 
the  world  is  more  awful  than  any  one  of  us  has 
ever  felt  it.  There  are  shadows  from  infinity  fall- 
en upon  it;  although  commonly  they  are  walked 
in  without  being  recognized  ;  so  that,  when  there 
is  sudden  notice  of  them,  it  may  well  be  awful." 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Coke,  "  what  a  world 
it  is  that  we  live  in !  And  what  frail  creatures 
we  are  that  live  in  it ! " 

"  Here  and  there,"  said  the  minister,  "  are  such 
happy  circumstances,  as  that  a  person  born  in 
them  grows  up  almost  as  though  in  the  garden 
of  Eden,  and  knows  the  sorrows  of  life  only 
like  shadows  passing  over  sunshiny  meadows. 
And  then  it  happens  for  the  man,  that  with  his 
first  real  sorrow  he  feels  for  the  first  time  the 


120  THORPE, 

sorrowfulness  of  the  world  itself  as  a  dwelling- 
place.  And  so,  perhaps  without  any  great  change 
of  circumstances,  the  happy  creature  of  one  month 
is  the  next  month  a  fellow-sufferer  with  the  be- 
reaved, and  the  oppressed,  and  the  starving,  and 
the  sick,  everywhere.  And  so  for  him  all  at 
once,  instead  of  walks  in  the  garden  of  Eden, 
the  paths  of  the  world  feel  as  though  leading 
only  to  sick-beds,  and  prisons,  and  graveyards. 
Simply  by  seeing  one  another,  and  talking  with 
one  another,  we  do  not  know  one  another.  And 
often  in  our  souls  there  are  deeps  up  out  of 
which  no  voice  comes  for  others  to  hear,  and 
down  into  which  seldom  do  we  look  ourselves. 
And  yet,  after  a  long  time,  there  may  rise  up 
thence  involuntary  thoughts,  which  we  do  not 
know  how  to  reason  with,  from  our  having  al- 
ways been  silent  on  the  sources  of  their  origin. 
And  so  I  never  see  a  good  youth,  who  is  sensitive 
as  well  as  intellectual,  but  I  could  pray  to  God  for 
him,  against  the  secret  perils  of  spiritual  growth. 
For  sometimes  in  such  a  person  ways  of  feeling 
grow  secretly,  which  are  felt  for  the  first  time,  and 
suddenly,  only  when  they  have  become  very  strong." 
"  What  comfort,"  said  the  sick  man,  "  there  is 
merely  in  the  sound  of  another's  sympathetic 
voice !  And  how  wrong  we  often  are,  —  we 


A    TALE.  121 

men,  —  in  not  availing  ourselves  of  it!  We  are 
afraid  of  its  being  a  weakness." 

"  Whereas  it  is  nature  and  an  ordinance  of 
God.  I  doubt  whether  any  man  can  comfort 
himself  effectually.  And  even  in  their  reasonable 
convictions,  they  are  very  few  who  can  be  alone 
and  strong." 

"  That  is  true !  Often  and  often  I  have  had 
to  notice  it,  especially  in  regard  to  persons  living 
in  small  communities." 

"  If  I  would  convince  myself,"  said  the  minis- 
ter, "would  I  convince  myself,  I  must  first  per- 
suade another  man,  and  then  "have  my  own  rea- 
sons speak  to  me  from  out  of  his  mind.  With 
persuading  another,  I  get  more  thoroughly  con- 
vinced myself.  Mere  speaking  aloud  does  not 
suffice.  A  man  may  talk  and  talk,  till  he  has 
talked  avteiy  all  his  faith,  if  he  talks  merely  from 
vanity  or  restlessness.  On  spiritual  subjects  a 
man  must  not  speak  into  the  air,  but  to  the 
soul  of  another,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  him. 
Nor  does  the  philosopher  need  a  philosopher  to 
sympathize  with  him.  Quite  otherwise.  For  he 
may  grow  clear  in  mind,  and  strengthen  in  faith, 
and  grow  joyful  in  his  belief,  with  only  talking  to 
an  unlettered  man  or  a  simple  serving-woman,  who 
knows  no  more  than  that  she  is  very  ignorant." 


122  THORPE, 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Lingard,  you  are  quite  right.  Though 
it  is  what  we  men,  in  our  pride,  do  not  often 
think." 

"  And  so  I  do  not  know  but  that  sometimes 
others  may  benefit  by  the  thoughts  of  an  author 
more  than  he  does  himself,  —  be  better  strength- 
ened and  more  effectually  consoled  for  the  dark, 
rough  path  of  life,  with  the  grave  across  it." 

"  And  that,  too,  is  one  of  the  hard  things  the 
world  abounds  in !  A  man  waters  with  his  blood 
the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil;  and 
then  upon  it  the  most  beautiful  blossoms  and  the 
choicest  fruit  are  not  for  himself,  but  for  others, — 
persons  of  no  self-sacrifice  and  not  much  thought." 

"  And,"  said  the  minister,  "  often  all  that  is  left' 
him  is  to  lie  down  beneath  the  wonderful  tree 
and  die,  —  and,  dying  so,  to*  make  others  be  more 
and  more  convinced  of  life  immortal.*  On  the 
moors  I  have  noticed  there  are  spots  on  which 
the  snow  will  not  lie,  however  deep  it  may  be 
everywhere  else  about.  And  in  this  world  there 
are  some  graves,  standing  on  which  we  cannot 
grow  cold  with  unbelief,  as  long  only  as  we  be- 
lieve that  God  is  just.  They  are  the  graves  of 
the  good  and  great,  who  have  suffered,  —  who 
have  hungered,  and  have  not  perhaps  had  even 
simple  food  yielded  them, —  who  have  yearned 


A    TALE. 


123 


for  higher  love  than  met  them  in  the  world, — 
who  have  talked  in  a  strain  too  nearly  that  of 
angels  for  many  men  to  join  them  in  it,  —  and 
who  have  been  God's  agents  in  the  world  for 
good,  —  immortal  good,  —  they  in  their  few  years 
and  many  troubles.  All  this,  —  how  forcibly  one 
would  feel  it  by  the  grave  of  Sir  Thomas  More 
or  Andrew  Marvel." 

"  Or  at  Lutterworth,  where  I  once  stood  .in 
Wicliff's  church " 

"But  the  troubles  of  the  purest  of  us  men, — 
what  are  they  to  the  sufferings  of  Jesus  Christ? 
They,  —  they  are  of  high,  infinite,  eternal  mean- 
ing. God  letting  his  Son  die  for  me ;  O  his  pity 
for  me!  God  helping  me  through  the  death  of 
his  own  Holy  One,  —  searching  after  me  through 
his  Son  as  a  spectacle  on  the  cross,  —  and  striv- 
ing to  soften  me  with  his  Son's  agony ;  —  O  the 
way  I  ought  to  feel,  so  tender  towards  him,  so 
patient  with  his  dealings !  God  the  unseen,  try- 
ing to  make  his  character  visible  by  his  Son 
dying,  and  in  his  Son's  death ;  —  O,  shall  I  not 
understand  him  and  believe?  God  calling  me 
to  look  up  at  heaven,  past  and  beyond  the  cross 
his  Son  hangs  on ;  —  shall  I  not  feel  it,  and  re- 
joice in  it  solemnly,  —  the  hint,  the  intimation, 
the  doctrine,  I  feel,  that  the  way  of  the  cross  is 
that  of  glory  ?  " 


124  THORPE, 


XVII. 

IT  was  Saturday  evening  and  towards  sunset. 
Martin  May  sat  on  the  bridge,  close  by  the  house 
at  the  Dell.  There  were  many  signs  of  the 
week  nearing  its  end.  The  stage-coach  went 
past;  and  then  several  market-carts.  And  some 
of  the  horses  of  the  farm  were  taken  over  the 
bridge,  on  their  way  to  the  pasture  for  their  Sun- 
day's rest.  And  then  there  came  along  a  wagon 
loaded  with  wheat.  It  was  the  last  of  the  harvest ; 
and  so  it  was  followed  by  several  laborers  in  a 
kind  of  rural  triumph.  And  among  them  was 
one  who  strode  along  in  a  white  smock-frock, 
playing  on  a  violin.  Such  a  still,  quiet  evening 
it  was!  And  already  on  his  soul  Martin  May 
felt  the  calm  of  the  coming  Sunday.  Close  by 
him,  flying  about  from  one  spot  to  another,  a 
robin  redbreast  was  singing  that  song  of  his, 
which  sounds  so  cheerful  in  the  winter  and  so 


A    TALE.  125 

pensive  in  the  autumn.  Martin  May  was  listen- 
ing to  it,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  man  who 
approached  him  from  behind,  and  said,  "  Sir,  my 
name  is  Sharpies,  —  Humphrey  Sharpies.  And 
I  have  a  letter  for  you.  It  is  from  our  secretary ; 
and  he  wants  an  answer.  I  have  told  him 
about  you;  and  he  knows  you  are  a  friend  of 
liberty;  and  so  he  is  willing  to  have  you  address 
our  Association  of  the  United  Chartists  and 
Friends  of  Humanity.  And  perhaps  you  would 
like  to  have  me  come  and  talk  over  the  matter 
with  you,  to-morrow." 

"  No ;  not  to-morrow,  because  it  will  be  Sun- 
day." 

"  O,  I  do  not  mind  that.  I  have  read  too 
much  for  that,  as  well  as  you." 

"  O  Mr.  Sharpies,  but  myself  I  have  not  read 
as  much  as  that  yet." 

"  But  you  will  help  us,  sir,  all  the  same  ?  " 

"  Your  secretary  shall  have  my  answer  by  the 
post,"  said  Martin  May,  putting  the  letter  in  his 
pocket.  "  And  you  yourself  I  will  help  in  any 
way  that  is  in  my  power." 

"  Ay,  I  knew  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Sharpies. 
"For  I  heard  of  how  you  answered  Justice  Bur- 
leigh,  that  evening.  A  man  that  was  behind 
the  hedge  the  while  told  me.  He  is  one  of  the 


126  THORPE, 

greatest  tyrants,  that  man,  sir.  He  belongs  to 
the  aristocracy.  And  so  does  almost  every  body 
about  here.  Only  there  is  nobody  quite  as  bad 
as  he  is,  without  it  may  be  Sir  Wilmot  Wilmot, 
as  they  call  him,  or  Parson  Scoresby,  or  Squire 
Pickford,  or  Squire  Horrocks,  or  Farmer  Whig- 
ham,  or  Farmer  Crankshaw,  or  Gornall,  or  Law- 
yer Steele,  or  Doctor  Blinkhorn,  or " 

"  Then  Justice  Burleigh  is  not  the  worst,  by 
many." 

"  Any  way,"  said  Mr.  Sharpies,  flushing  in  the 
face,  and  stretching  out  his  right  hand,  "  any 
way,  he  is  an  oppressor,  and  worse  than  Bru- 
tus." 

"  I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  of  him  be- 
fore, in  such  connection.  Brutus!  Was  he  a 
cousin  of  Lord  Castlereagh's  ?  " 

"  Likely  enough.  .  Though  as  to  his  connec- 
tions, I  do  not  know  any  thing  about  them,  and 
I  do  not  care  either.  But  no  doubt  he  was 
some  lord.  I  am  not  like  some  of  the  people 
about  here.  There  is  John  Illingworth.  He 
knows  every  thing  about  these  Wilmots  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,  —  what  families  they  married  into, 
—  what  battles  they  were  in,  —  what  offices 
they  held,  —  and  how  some  of  them  were  be- 
headed in  London.  And  that. last  is  the  best 


A    TALE.  127 

thing  he  has  to  say  about  them.  So  I  tell  him. 
And  then  he  gets  into  a  rage." 

"  But  how  comes  he  to  know  so  much  about 
them  ?  " 

"  O,  all  the  best  of  his  life  he  was  a  servant 
of  theirs ;  and  so  was  his  father,  and  his  grand- 
father. And  so  is  his  son  now.  I  tell  him  it  is 
time  there  was  a  change,  —  time  for  him  to  have 
his  turn  at  the  castle.  And  that  angers  him  ter- 
ribly. And  why  it  should  I  cannot  think.  But 
it  shows  how  unreasonable  a  man  becomes  by 
living  with  the  aristocracy.  That  is  what  I  say, 
and  do  not  you  think  so,  sir?" 

"  Unreasonable !  That  depends  on  what  you 
call  reason.  And  so  what  is  reason?" 

"  Reason  is  right,  —  having  one's  rights." 

«  Whose  rights  ?  " 

"  My  own.  For  what  have  I  to  do  with  any 
body  else's  ?  " 

"  And  Mr.  Sharpies,  your  rights  are " 

"  Universal  suffrage.  And  you  know  what 
that  is;  for  you  have  it  in  America." 

"  Not  universal.  For  a  minor  has  not  the  suf- 
frage." 

"  Well,  a  man  is  not  obliged  to  be  that,  I  sup- 
pose, and  work  in  a  pit.  But  for  all  other  class- 
es it  is  universal,  is  not  it?" 


128  THORPE, 

"  No.     For  women  have  no  votes." 

"  Women  !  And  why  should  they  have  ?  Be- 
sides I  am  not  a  woman.  And  if  I  were  in 
America  I  should  have  my  share  in  the  govern- 
ment. And  that  is  what  we  want  you  to  show 
next  Friday." 

"  And  to  show  that  in  America  the  people 
are  all  educated  ?  " 

"  Well ;  that  is  because  of  their  having  the 
suffrage." 

"  Yes  ;  but  also  they  acquired  the  suffrage 
through  their  having  first  been  an  educated  peo- 
ple." 

"  O,  I  do  not  know  about  that." 

"  And  no  fault  of  yours  either,  Mr.  Sharpies. 
But  as  I  was  born  among  them,  I  do  happen  to 
know.  Mr.  Sharpies,  your  conversation  interests 
me  very  much.  You  have  read  " 

"  As  much  as  any  man  I  know  about  liberty, 
Cobbett  and " 

"  You  have  learned  to  read  and  write  ?  Then 
I  want  you  to  make  me  a  list  of  such  books  or 
tracts  as  you  think  are  good  reading  on  the  sub- 
ject of  English  society." 

"  I  will  tell  you  them  now." 

"  But  I  wish  you  to  write  them  down  for  me,  if 
you  will.  And  I  will  pay  you  for  your  trouble." 


A    TALE.  129 

"  I  cannot  write ;  for  I  have  never  learned  to. 
And  that  is  the  doing  of  the  aristocracy." 

"  Never  learned !  But  writing  is  taught  in  the 
free  schools  here." 

"  But  it  was  not  when  I  went  to  school.  It 
was  not  at  St.  John's,  which  was  the  school  I 
belonged  to." 

"  But  at  the  other  school,  —  at  that  by  the 
Presbyterian  Chapel,  —  there  was  writing  taught, 
twenty  years  ago,  was  there  not  ? " 

"  Well,  I  believe  there  may  have  been.  But 
I  did  not  belong  there.  For  at  that  time  I  used 
to  go  to  church,  along  with  my  father.  And  he 
would  have  thought  it  a  shame  to  go  into  a 
chapel,  or  to  let  me  go  to  the  Presbyterian  school. 
But  I  have  heard  that  once  the  Presbyterians 
were  more  zealous  for  liberty  than  almost  any 
other  people.  But  when  the  Charter  was  brought 
forward,  the  minister  proved  to  be  an  aristocrat. 
And  I  was  the  man  to  detect  him." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Lingard  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  The  petition  for  the  Charter,  — 
I  took  it  to  him  to  sign.  And  he  would  not. 
And  because  he  would  not,  others  would  not. 
And  so  there  has  never  been  a  Chartist  near  his 
chapel  since.  Though  to  be  sure  there  never 
were  any  Chartists  used  to  attend  there  regu- 


130  THORPE, 

| 

larly.  Myself  I  used  to  go  there  sometimes.  But 
now  I  do  not.  For  I  take  a  book  and  go  into 
the  fields,  and  lie  on  the  grass.  And  a  very  good 
way  it  is;  for  the  country  was  made  before  the 
church." 

"  And  Mr.  Lingard  was  made  before  you.  And 
so  it  might  be  well  for  you  to  go  to  him  some- 
times ;  might  it  not  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Sharpies,  "  I  have  no  patience 
with  any  body  that  will  not  let  me  have  my  rights. 
It  is  all  very  well,  —  fine  talk.  But  what  right 
has  Squire  Burleigh  to  that  great  hall,  and  two 
or  three  carriages,  and  wine  every  day,  while  I 
have  got  nothing?  What  more  right  has  he  to 
these  things  than  I  have  ?  That  is  what  I  asked 
Parson  Lingard.  It  was  a  harder  question  than 
he  had  ever  had  put  to  him  before,  I  know.  It 
went  deep  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  matter  : 
and  he  could  not  meet  it.  Sir,  he  could  not  an- 
swer it." 

"  I  wish  you  would  ask  me,"  said  Martin  May, 
"  and  I  will  answer  it." 

"  Well,  I  do  ask  you,"  said  Mr.  Sharpies,  in  a 
tone  half  confident,  half  surly. 

"  Considered  as  pigs  then,  you  and  Justice 
Burleigh,  he  would  have  no  better  right  to  the 
hall  than  you.  It  is  the  end  and  fulfilment  of  a 


A    TALE. 

pig's  nature  to  lie  still  and  grow  fat;  and  so  it 
would  be  just  as  much  the  right  of  pig  Sharpies 
to  grow  fat  in  Haslingden  Hall,  as  it  would  be 
of  pig  Burleigh.  But,  Mr.  Sharpies,  you  are  not 
a  pig,  but  a  man,  and  a  man  of  some  fine  qual- 
ities. And  so  the  end  of  your  life  is  not  fat,  but 
character,  honesty.  And  now  you  can  under- 
stand why  you  have  no  right  to  Haslingden  Hall. 
If  you  were  a  pig,  you  might  have  some  right 
to  it,  as  a  sty.  But  as  a  man,  you  have  no 
right  to  the  place ;  and  as  an  honest  man,  you 
will  feel  you  have  none." 

«  Pooh  !     Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  Cannot  I  make  you  understand  ?  You  do 
understand,  Mr.  Sharpies.  I  am  sure  you  do. 
There  is  no  law  for  the  pig  against  covetous- 
ness.  But  there  is  for  man.  Grovelling  and 
walking  on  all  fours,  —  head  down,  —  the  pig  is 
following  his  whole  true  nature  in  following  his 
mouth.  But  man  is  erect,  —  his  head  high  up 
in  the  world.  And  from  the  soul  in  him,  man 
is  high  enough  to  hear  things  of  the  spirit,  — 
laws  of  a  higher  world  than  this  of  dust.  It  is 
man's  distinction,  sad  and  mournful  sometimes, 
but  always  solemn  and  glorious,  that  he  can 
hear  what  the  brutes  cannot, — what  is  Divine, 
and  a  commandment,  — '  Thou  shalt  not  covet.' " 


132  THORPE, 

It  was  growing  dusk.  Mr.  Sharpies  was  si- 
lent. And  it  seemed  as  though  he  might  have 
been  convinced.  But  he  got  down  from  the  par- 
apet of  the  bridge,  on  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
and  replied,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness  and  triumph, 
"  That  may  be  very  well  in  America,  where 
people  have  enough  to  eat.  But  do  you  think 
it  sounds  much  to  me,  or  ought  it  to?  For  I 
have  had  nothing  to  eat  to-day." 

"  You ! "  exclaimed  Martin  May,  quite  horrified. 
"  Nothing  to  eat !  Had  nothing  to  eat !  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Sharpies,  in  a  fierce,  triumphant 
tone,  "  I  have  had  nothing  inside  my  lips  all  this 
blessed  day.  And  now,  sir,  where  are  you  ?  and 
where  is  your  argument  ?  I  have  done  half  a 
day's  work ;  and  I  have  walked  fourteen  miles  ; 
and  I  have  not  had  a  morsel  to  eat  to-day.  And 
now  what  have  you  to  say  about  Justice  Bur- 
leigh  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  have  nothing  to  answer  you  now. 
But  come  with  me,  and  have  something  to  eat." 

"  Not  I ! "  said  the  other.  "  Not  I !  I  am  no 
beggar." 

"  No  ;  but  a  poor,  patient  man.  Come,  come ! " 
and  Martin  May  drew  him  by  the  arm  towards 
the  house. 

"  I  will  not.     I  am  no  beggar.     Not  I ! " 


A    TALE.  133 

"Nor  I  a  thief!  I  have  had  all  this  time  of 
yours.  And  now  I  must  pay  you  for  it.  Indeed 
I  must,  and  I  will." 

"  Hands  off,  sir !  Let  me  go,"  said  the  Chart- 
ist, in  a  relenting  tone. 

'•  No,  Mr.  Sharpies,  no  !  You  have  got  the 
better  of  the  argument,  you  think.  But  you  can- 
not throw  me  in  a  wrestle.  So  come  along,  and 
share  my  supper ;  or  else  I  will  call  help  to  carry 
you.  There !  Come  along." 

In  the  house  the  table  was  set  for  supper.  It 
was  covered  with  bread,  cheese,  butter,  bacon, 
beef,  and  pigeon-pie.  Mr.  Sharpies  was  just 
going  to  begin  his  supper ;  and  all  his  hungry 
body  was  in  a  tremor  of  expectation  and  delight. 
But  there  was  set  down,  near  his  left  hand,  a  sil- 
ver tankard  of  ale.  At  the  sight  of  this  aristo- 
cratic object,  his  Chartism  was  aroused;  and  with 
the  near  neighborhood  of  it,  he  felt  as  though  his 
principles  were  being  compromised.  He  dropped 
his  knife,  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  stood  up 
and  cried,  "  No,  no !  I  have  not  tasted  yet.  I 
will  have  none  of  it.  This  is  no  place  for  me,  — 
no  place  for  me."  And,  bewildered  and  faint, 
he  looked  about  him  wildly.  But  the  tall,  round 
farmer  rose  beside  him,  and  laid  his  great  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  and  cried,  "  Down,  fool,  and 


134  THORPE, 

eat  a  supper  when  you  can  get  it !  I  say,  Numps, 
be  a  man  for  once.  Ho,  ho,  ho !  Numpy,  Num- 
py !  Thou  wert  always  for  talk,  talk,  talk,  in- 
stead of  filling  thy  belly." 

The  farmer  sat  down  again  in  his  great  arm- 
chair, and  laid  hold  of  the  handle  of  the  silver 
tankard,  and  looked  round  the  taWe,  and  said, 
"  Is  every  body  served  ?  Ay,  Numpy,  we  will 
fill  thee,  for  once,  to-night.  And  we  would  have 
thee  half  drunk  too,  only  that  it  is  Sunday  to- 
morrow. The  Lord  be  praised  for  what  he  gives. 
And  so  begin." 


A    TALE.  135 


XVIII. 

IT  was  Monday  afternoon,  and  the  minis- 
ter called  at  the  Dell.  "  Ah,  Mr.  May,"  he  said, 
"  you  are  having  a  laugh  here  all  to  yourself. 
I  heard  it  as  I  came  past  the  window." 

"  O,  I  think  it  right  to  practise  my  host's 
laugh,  as  often  as  I  can.  I  fancy  it  is  good  for 
my  health,  bodily  and  mentally." 

"  So  Luther  th'ought.  For  he  said  there  was 
nothing  the  Devil  hated  worse  than  a  good  laugh." 

"  And  I  think  so  too,"  said  Martin  May. 

"  Man,"  the  minister  said,  "  man  is  the  only 
creature  that  can  laugh ;  and  also  he  is  the  only 
creature  that  is  beset  by  the  Devil.  So  that  it 
would  seem  as  though  laughter  were  a  kind  of 
weapon  specially  intended  against  the  Devil ;  on- 
ly that  so  often  he  gets  it  on  his  own  side.  No, 
no!  Luther  notwithstanding,  I  think  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  the  Devil  has  not  more  gain  than 


136  THORPE, 

loss  by  laughter.  Hark,  at  the  door  of  the  pub- 
lic house!  It  is  laughter  inside.  Hark  in  Par- 
liament, that  wise  suggestion  so  modestly  made! 
It  is  lost  in  shouts  of  laughter.  Hark!  what 
is  it  that  is  persuading  that  young  man  to  turn 
round  to  the  door  of  the  gambling-house  ?  It  is 
a  laugh  of  derision.  And  the  virgin  mind  of 
your  maiden  is  being  soiled,  not  with  words  so 
much  as  a  laugh,  —  a  sneering  laugh." 

"  In  what  I  was  laughing  at  just  now,"  said 
Martin  May,  "  I  am  not  sure  but  there  is  a  sad- 
ness which  ought  to  have  kept  me  sober.  I  have 
been  writing  an  answer  to  a  letter  from  a  man 
I  hate.  I  hate  him  because  he  is  a  hypocrite, 
and  makes  a  mask  of  the  holy  cause  of  freedom. 
He  has  written  me  a  letter,  in  which  he  says, 
'  I  have  good  reason  to  believe*  that  you  are  a 
zealous,  devoted  friend  of  liberty  everywhere. 
And  therefore  I  have  accepted  the  great  honor 
of  writing  to  you  on  behalf  of  the  United 
Chartists  and  Friends  of  Humanity.  I  am  em- 
powered to  invite  you  to  address  the  United 
Chartists  and  Friends,  on  the  earliest  Friday 
evening  that  is  convenient  to  you.  You  are 
one  of  those  who  are  called  to  by  downtrod- 
den and  oppressed  human  nature,  weltering  in 
the  gore  of  centuries,  and  bruised  by  the  infa- 


A    TALE. 


mous  aristocracy.  The  unconquerable  cause  in- 
vites you.  You  come  from  the  land  of  which 
Thomas  Paine  was  a  citizen  and  George  Wash- 
ington was  President ;  and  England  expects 
you  to  do  your  duty.'  Now  I  am  a  republican, 
and  a  zealous  democrat.  But  this  Fergus,  I 
have  seen  him  and  heard  him ;  and  I  know 
him  to  be  an  impostor.  And  I  am  not  going 
to  occupy  the  people  with  talking,  while  he  picks 
their  pockets." 

"  O,  what  an  awful  thing  it  is,"  said  the  min- 
ister, "  that  so  much  of  the  earnestness  of  this 
country  should  be  under  the  misdirection  of  such 
men  as  this  Fergus." 

"  I  have  been  talking  with  a  man  of  the  name 
of  Humphrey  Sharpies.  Do  you  know  him?" 

"  I  know  him.  An  unhappy  man,  wrong  in 
body,  mind,  and  estate ;  but  in  his  mind  worst  of 
all!  A  man  of  fortitude  and  some  fine  capabil- 
ities; but,  unfortunately  for  himself,  a  politician! 
At  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  a  strong,  cheer- 
ful youth,  singing  and  whistling  at  his  field  work. 
But  a  change  came  over  him  from  attending  a 
meeting  of  a  Chartist  club,  one  night.  To  be 
near  the  scene  of  political  agitation,  he  sought 
employment  in  Manchester,  and  went  there  to 
live.  And  now  he  is  the  man  you  have  seen  him 


138  THORPE, 

to  be,  from  lodging  in  a  dirty,  smoky  alley, — 
being  only  half  employed,  —  attending  political 
meetings  night  after  night,  often  in  rooms  reek- 
ing with  gin  and  tobacco,  —  fretting  himself  with 
his  own  wrongs,  and  the  great  wrongs  of  the 
country,  —  and  reading  unwholesome  things,  abu- 
sive newspapers,  attacks  on  the  institution  of 
property,  and  false  and  true  histories  of  royal, 
aristocratic,  and  clerical  crimes.  I  believe  he 
classes  me  among  the  oppressors,  as  though  I 
were  not  even  worse  oppressed  than  himself. 
Poor  man !  There  are  millions  like  him,  that  on- 
ly know  they  are  tortured,  but  do  not  know 
how." 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  sir,  I  know,  in  my  say- 
ing that  I  thought  you  had  been  quite  absorbed 
in  your  books,  schools,  and  preparations  for  the 
Sabbath.  So  that  I  did  not  think  you  had  had 
much  perception  of  the  anomalies  and  wrongs 
here,  which  are  so  strange  in  my  American  eyes." 

"  Ah !  I  have  long  seen  them.  And  indeed 
they  have  glared  in  my  eyes  painfully.  Once  I 
made  a  study  of  politics ;  and  I  grew  fierce  with 
it,  and  then  wiser,  and  then  sad.  A  large  popu- 
lation crowded  into  a  little  island,  and  always 
growing  denser,  —  everywhere  twelve  men  strug- 
gling for  the  bread  which  is  enough  only  for 


A    TALE.  139 

ten,  —  customs  and  institutions  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  blessings  once,  but  which  have  lasted  on 
so  long  in  an  altered  world,  as  that  now  they 
only  blight  and  curse,  —  taxation  direct  and  indi- 
rect,—  of  all  these  things  I  know  the  effects, 
subtile  often,  and  often  more  horrible  than  you 
would  readily  believe.  I  know  of  the  under- 
ground channels  by  which  the  prosperity  of  poor 
men  leaks  away  to  feed  what  is  so  deep  and 
broad  and  still,  with  woods  and-  seats  and  gras- 
sy spots  all  round  its  margin,  —  the  lake  of  abun- 
dance by  yonder  castle.  When  a  strong,  brave 
man,  a  farmer,  struggles  hard  with  a  poor  soil, 
a  high  rent,  and  tithe,  and  church-rate,  and  poor- 
rate,  and  fails  and  dies  of  a  broken  heart,  — 
when  men  and  women  die  unable  to  read  the 
Bible,  —  when  there  cease  living  good,  honest 
laborers,  with  whom  a  long  lifetime  of  labor 
has  never  been  sweetened  with  the  least  com- 
fort,—  there  are  groans  go  forth  into  the  empty 
air.  But  also  I  know  of  the  high  quarter  towards 
which  those  groans  are  turned  and  carried  by 
the  Angel  of  Justice." 

The  minister  paused  awhile  and  then  con- 
tinued :  "  But  for  me  these  are  unwholesome 
thoughts.  For  so  I  have  found  them,  with  en- 
tertaining them.  Yes,  with  these  hot  thoughts 


140  THORPE, 

I   have   found   my  eye   for  the  beautiful  fail   me, 

—  and   my   feelings    all  run   to    indignation   and 
despair.     And   I   found   my  soul  dwindle  in  me, 
with  the  loss  of  the  quiet  that  is  her  life.      Were 
I  ever  so  zealous  and  wise,  yet  in  my  position  I 
could    effect   nothing   whatever    politically,    either 
in  the   way   of  movement   or   instruction.      And 
so,  though  I  hold  my  own  political  opinions,  yet 
I   have  turned   away  from   that   intense  interest, 
which  once   drew   me  so   absorbingly,  and  I  try 
only   to  remember  that  I  am  a  minister  of  Jesus 
Christ,   who,    though   poor   himself,    could   make 
many  rich." 

Martin  May  felt  that  in  these  words  there  was 
something  of  the  history  of  the  speaker's  heart. 
And  he  looked  earnestly  at  the  minister,  who  con- 
tinued, "  What  Humphrey  Sharpies  suffers  from 
poverty  is  nothing  to  what  he  suffers  in  other 
ways,  —  in  having  his  sense  of  justice  outraged, 

—  in   having   his   reverence    fail  for   authority,  — 
in  having  his  feelings  so  embittered,  as  that   al- 
most he  thinks  and  hopes  all  evil.     In  this  man- 
ner,  the  wrong  that  is  done  him   is    worse  than 
he  knows,  or  ever  will  know  in  this  world." 

"  It  is  terrible  to  think  on  the  amount  of  mind 
which  is  vitiated  in  this  country,  and  especially 
in  the  larger  towns." 


A    TALE.  141 

"  Though  perhaps  in  the  great  towns  it  is  only 
that  the  universal  mischief  is  more  palpable.. 
However,  just  hereabouts  we  are  somewhat  fa- 
vored, and  are  exempt  from  some  of  the  worst 
effects  of  Toryism.  In  this  neighborhood,  per- 
haps half  of  the  farmers  own  the  land  which 
they  cultivate,  and  so  are  independent  of  con- 
trol. But  there  are  wide  tracts  of  country,  over 
which  there  is  not  a  farmer  but  votes  with  his 
landlord  on  all  public  matters,  and  not  a  farmer 
either,  or  indeed  any  one  else,  who  dares  to  dis- 
sent from  the  Established  Church.  Against  this 
oppression  I  am  utterly  powerless.  And  so  I  do 
not  speak  about  it  at  all.  I  am  silent  on  it,  but 
not  because  I  have  been  thoughtless  on  it  always. 
For,  Mr.  May,  I  have  not  been  so.  But  it  is 
necessary  for  my  people  and  my  ministry  that  I 
possess  my  soul  in  peace,  and  not  fret  myself  be- 
cause of  evil-doers.  And  also  this  sad  condition 
of  England  is  not  evil  deed  altogether,  for  some 
and  perhaps  much  of  it  is  evil  accident.  And 
the  rectification  of  it  must  be  the  work  of  time." 

"  And  so  it  seems  to  me,  sir." 

"  Here  in  England,  Mr.  May,  before  ancient  op- 
pressions can  be  made  to  cease  in  their  effects, 
and  before  old  neglects  can  be  remedied,  and 
deep,  deep  fountains  of  wrong  can  be  closed  up, 


142  THORPE, 

slow,  sure  workmen  must  have  had  their  time, 
and  many,  many  years  have  passed  away.  But 
an  the  mean  while,  here  are  souls  coming  into  the 
world,  and  needing  to  be  sanctified  on  their  way 
through  it,  —  needing  the  ministry  committed  to 
my  charge.  Reform,  reform !  That  is  the  cry  all 
over  the  country.  But  time  does  not  stop  for  re- 
forms to  be  made.  But  in  at  the  gate  of  birth 
souls  keep  coming,  and  across  the  world  and  out 
at  the  gate  of  death  they  keep  going.  And  all 
the  worse  distracted  is  the  time  of  their  passage 
through,  so  much  the  more  do  they  need  the  Gos- 
pel of  Christ,  and  faithful  words  from  some  heart 
that  is  at  peace  with  itself  and  in  communion 
with  God  and  Christ.  And  to  this  opinion  of 
mine  humbly  I  endeavor  to  conform  my  temper 
and  my  conduct.  And  that  is  the  reason,  Mr. 
May,  why  I  am  so  unlike  a  fighting  monk,  or  a 
bishop  with  a  mace,  or  Pope  Julian  cased  in  ar- 
mor underneath  his  vestments." 

"  Or  Athanasius  at  Alexandria,  struggling  to 
maintain  himself  in  his  bishopric  against  Arius." 

"  Yes,  or  Athanasius.  Here  are  souls  which 
look  to  me  for  guidance,  or  which  say  they  do. 
And  I  have  got  to  direct  them  along  ways  which 
the  political  reformer  may  approach  sometimes, 
and  even  cross,  but  which  I  cannot  leave,  so  as 


A    TALE.  143 

to  follow  him  to  further  him.  These  souls  I 
have  to  watch ;  and  I  have  perhaps  to  notice  how 
on  the  mind  of  this  old  man  there  is  a  cloud 
thickening,  —  and  how  this  young  man  is  ad- 
vanced within  sight  of  a  temptation,  that  beckons 
him,  —  and  how  this  maiden  is  walking  with  her 
eyes  on  what  is  no  trusty  star,  but  a  deceitful 
meteor,  —  and  how  this  sufferer  is  beginning  to 
despair,  —  and  how  this  public  event  is  likely  to 
affect  the  minds  of  men,  whether  well  or  ill, 
whether  to  strengthen  them  in  right  feeling  or 
weaken  them.  And  so  sometimes  it  may  happen 
with  a  sermon  of  fnine,  that  some  hearer  is  guid- 
ed safely  past  a  danger  which  he  never  saw,  — 
or  some  man  has  his  courage  called  up  against  a 
trouble  which  he  did  not  know  was  coming,  —  or 
some  woman  finds  her  heart  grown  unexpectedly 
strong  against  her  next  trial,  —  or  some  youth 
finds  himself  followed  by  earnest  thoughts,  that 
have  come  upon  him  he  knows  not  how.  To  do 
something  of  this  nature,  and  to  keep  myself  and 
my  little  flock  in  the  fellowship  of  the  Holy  Spir- 
it,—  this  is  my  object,  and  I  think  it  is  my  proper 
business ;  and  I  accept  it  as  my  calling." 

"  Do  not  rise,  sir,"  said  Martin  May.  "  But 
must  you  really  go,  sir,  so  soon?  It  interests 
me  much,  to  witness  the  state  of  English  so- 


144  THORPE, 

ciety,  and  to  see  how  deeply  it  is  marked  with 
the  effects  of  the  past,  —  how  the  wholesome 
customs  of  the  age  of  Alfred  have  become  the 
grievances  of  the  present  day.  And  amid  it  all, 
for  a  man  of  much  mind  or  heart,  it  must  be  a 
very  difficult  thing  to  keep  patient." 

"  Yes.  But  still  we  should  have  to  die,  whether 
we  were  favored  or  aggrieved,  —  whether  living 
under  our  old  English  institutions,  or  under  such 
as  you  have  in  America,  and  which  are  renewed, 
it  is  said,  every  twenty  years,  like  your  wooden 
houses.  Says  St.  Jerome,  I  think,  to  some  cor- 
respondent, '  Do  you  not  perc%ive  how  you  have 
been  a  child,  a  boy,  a  robust  youth,  and  how  al- 
ready you  are  now  an  old  man?  We  die  daily; 
we  are  changed  every  day.  This  moment  of 
my  writing  is  so  much  deducted  from  my  life. 
We  write ;  and  then  again  we  write  in  answer. 
Letters  cross  the  sea,  and  ships  plough  the  deep, 
and  with  every  tide,  every  wave,  our  moments 
are  diminished.  We  never  can  gain  any  thing 
but  what  we  can  appropriate  to  ourselves, 
through  the  love  of  Christ.'  And  that  is  my 
belief.  And  now  I  must  return  to  my  Parson- 
age." 


A    TALE.  145 


XIX. 

ANOTHER  evening  Martin  May  sat  on  the 
bridge,  and  looked  over  into  the  shallow  stream, 
and  admired  the  beauty  of  the  brook  as  it  spread 
itself  over  the  fine  yellow  sand  for  a  bed.  There 
came  up  the  road  two  men.  One  of  them  was 
neatly  dressed  in  black,  and  wore  a  white  cravat. 
And  the  other,  who  led  a  calf  in  a  string,  was 
John  Nock,  a  constable,  living  close  by  the  Dell. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Martin  May.  "  That 
is  a  very  pretty  calf.  What!  Mr.  Nock,  have 
you  been  buying,  or  are  you  going  to  sell?" 

"  Sir,  it  is  not  my  calf.  It  is  Mr.  Keeley's. 
At  least,  just  now  it  is.  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  I  have  only  been  doing  my  duty." 

"  It  has  been  an  unpleasant  business,"  said  Mr. 
Keeley.  "  But  law  is  law.  And  so  I  told  the 
old  lady.  And  do  not  you  think  so,  sir  ?  " 

«  Certainly  I  do." 
10 


146  THORPE, 

Mr.  Keeley  seemed  much  cheered,  and  said, 
"  You  see,  sir,  if  you  do  not  go  by  the  law, 
what  can  you  go  by  ?  That  is  what  I  say.  And 
I  am  firm  on  it.  And  I  went  to  that  old  lady 
and  told  her  so,  I  should  think  five  times.  But 
it  was  all  of  no  use.  She  would  not  pay,  but 
only  talk.  And  once  she  wanted  to  read  to  me; 
but  I  would  not  let  her.  She  asked  me  into  the 
parlor,  and  invited  me  to  sit  down;  and  so  I 
thought  certainly  she  was  going  to  pay  the  rate. 
But  not  she !  For  she  gets  a  great  old  book  with 
Pennington  on  the  back,  and  opens  it  and  begins 
to  read  to  me  about  a  Hired  Ministry.  But  I 
stopped  her,  and  told  her  I  was  not  the  clergy- 
man, but  only  the  parish  clerk.  And  would  you 
believe  it  ?  This  afternoon,  when  we  took  her  the 
magistrate's  order  for  payment,  she  wanted  us  to 
sit  down  and  read  a  tract.  As  though  a  tract 
could  be  any  thing  against  the  magistrate's  or- 
der!" 

"  And  the  order  was  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  her  to  pay  her  church-rate,  and  the  ex- 
penses of  the  summons  and  the  hearing." 

"  And  why  would  not  she  pay  ? " 

"  O,  her  conscience  was  her  reason,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  said  to  her,  '  If  it  is  wrong  in  you  to  pay, 
it  is  worse  in  you  to  force  us  to  make  you  pay 


A    TALE.  147 

twice  as  much  as  you  ought.  And  so  any  way 
it  would  be  better  for  you  to  pay  the  church-rate.' 
But  not  she,  the  old  Quakeress !  She  would  not." 

"  But  then  the  Quakers  do  not  go  to  your 
church.  And  so  why  should  they  pay  to  it?" 

"  Nor  the  Presbyterians,  nor  the  Baptists,  nor 
the  Methodists.  And  they  all  pay,  —  they  all  pay. 
They  all  have  to  pay.  For  so  the  law  is." 

"  And  you  Episcopalians,  —  do  you  pay  to  the 
Baptists  or  the  Presbyterians  ?  " 

"  Pay  ?  No  !  For  they  cannot  make  us.  They 
are  not  established.  And  that  is  just  what  I 
say.  The  law  is  the  law,  and  the  law  makes  the 
difference." 

"  O,  then  the  Dissenters  have  to  support  the 
Established  Church,  and  their  own  churches  be- 
sides." 

"  Yes.  The  law  lets  them.  Though  they  are 
not  obliged  to.  For  they  could  come  to  the  Es- 
tablishment, if  they  liked.  But  as  I  say,  if  the 
law  is  a  bad  law,  let  it  be  altered.  But  as  long 
as  the  law  is  the  law,  why,  let  it  be  the  law. 
You  see,  sir,  that  is  plain  enough.  Yet  that  old 
Quakeress,  I  could  not  make  her  see  it ;  though 
I  said  it  over  twenty  times.  And  so  she  would 
not  pay  her  rate,  and  we  had  to  take  the  heifer." 

"  The  church-rate  is  not  tithe,  is  it  ? " 


148  THORPE, 

"O,  no!"  said  the  clerk,  "it  is  nothing  like 
tithe.  It  is  not  a  quarter  nor  half  a  quarter  as 
much." 

"  Now,  for  a  farmer  like  Mr.  Welby,  what  does 
tithe  amount  to,  in  the  year  ?  " 

"  About  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds. 
Well,  now,  there  is  Farmer  Welby.  He  pays 
tithe  to  us,  and  church-rate,  and  never  grumbles, 
—  never.  And  yet  he  is  a  Presbyterian.  And 
always  at  his  house  there  is  a  jug  of  ale  on  the 
table  when  I  call  for  the  rate.  But  this  old 
Quakeress,  —  she  had  a  book  on  the  table,  and 
wanted  to  read  to  me  ;  and  would  not  pay. 
Though  her  rate  is  nearly  nothing.  And  tithe  she 
does  not  pay  at  all." 

"  That,"  remarked  the  constable  quietly,  "  that 
is  because  the  tithe  has  been  redeemed  on  that 
field,  years  and  years  ago." 

"  Now  let  us  be  going,"  said  the  clerk.  "  But 
who  is  this  galloping  this  way  ?  It  is  Farmer 
Welby  himself.  I  wish,  Nock,  we  had  not  stayed 
here." 

"  How  do  you  all  do  ?  "  said  Mr.  Welby.  "  Mr. 
American,  how  do  you  do  ?  You  are  getting 
fat.  And  I  am  glad  to  see  it.  For  I  did  think 
once  you  had  come  here  to  die.  Ah,  it  is  beef 
makes  the  Englishman,  and  it  would  make  an 


A    TALE.  149 

Englishman  'of  you,  in  a  year.  My  cousin's 
beef " 

"  Will  never   make   me   your  cousin's  weight." 

"  O,  I  hope  so,  in  time.  But  you  do  not  want 
to  be  that  yet,  —  not  yet.  But  what  have  you 
got  there,  Mr.  Keeley?" 

"  A  calf,  a  heifer,"  said  the  clerk,  doggedly. 

"  A  heifer,  a  calf !  Cannot  I  see  it  is  a  calf  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Welby. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  "  we  have  been 
distraining  for  church-rate." 

"  Sorry  for  it,  sorry  for  it !  Pay  the  money,  I 
say,  and  let  us  live  in  peace.  Love  and  union 
and  charity,  —  that  is  what  I  go  for,  Mr.  May. 
And  I  wish  we  might  all  go  for  love  and  union 
and  charity." 

"  Ah,  if  they  were  all  like  you ! "  said  Mr.  Kee- 
ley. 

"  Pretty  calf !  It  wants  its  mother  though  ! 
How  it  bleats,  —  poor  little  thing  !  And  why 
would  not  the  man  pay  ?  " 

"  Did  not  go  to  church." 

"  Nor  do  I.  I  go  to  chapel.  It  is  hard,  and 
I  will  not  say  but  it  is  bad,  that  I  should  have  to 
pay  to  a  church  I  do  not  belong  to,  and  do  not 
believe  in.  But  still,  if  I  must  pay,  I  will  pay. 
And  after  all,  my  money  might  go  in  a  worse 


150  THORPE, 

way.  But  eh,  man,  what  is  the  maft er  with  you  ? 
Are  not  you  well?  But  I  say,  whose  calf  was 
this,  —  what  man's  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  any  man's,"  said  the  clerk,  and 
looked  about  for  some  way  of  escape. 

"  A  woman's,  then  !  It  was  not  a  woman's, 
though  ;  was  it  ?  Do  tell  me,  Mr.  Keeley,  it  was 
not  a  woman's." 

"  It  was,  though,'"  said  the  constable,  pulling 
his  hat  over  his  eyes. 

"  And  you  took  away  a  calf  from  a  poor 
woman  !  You  did,  Isaac ;  did  you  ?  Then  I  say 
God  have  mercy  on  thee,  Isaac  Keeley.  Take  a 
poor  woman's  calf!  Take  it  for  the  church, — 
a  poor  woman's  calf ! " 

"She  is  not  poor,"  said. the  clerk,  fiercely. 

"  She  is  the  Quaker  lady  at  the  Grange,"  said 
the  constable. 

The  farmer  grasped  his  horse  by  the  mane, 
with  both  hands,  and  seemed  as  though  swal- 
lowing his  anger.  At  last  he  said  calmly,  "  I 
would  not  have  had  this  happen  in  the  parish 
for  five  pounds,  •«—  no,  nor  for  ten.  She  comes 
among  us  to  live,  without  knowing  any  body,  and 
without  having  one  of  her  own  people  anywhere 
near.  And  she  shows  herself  neighborly  among 
us,  and  trusts  herself  and  her  daughter  among  us, 


A    TALE.  151 

as  though  she  did  not  know  what  harm  was. 
O,  it  was  a  beautiful  sight,  the  way  she  came 
among  us!  And  then  such  a  quiet,  kind,  good 
woman! " 

"  I  do  not  know  that,"  sullenly  objected  the  clerk. 

"  Why,  Isaac,  how  can  you  stand  there  and 
say  so?  She  gives  away  tons  and  tons  of  coal 
among  the  poor.  She  knits  stockings  and  is 
always  knitting  for  them.  And  only  last  week 
she  gave  John  Hopperton  a  sovereign,  because 
he  had  been  iU  for  a  month.  And  that  is  a 
kindness  which  the  man  told  me  of  himself. 
From  cottage  to  cottage,  she  going  about  in 
that  neat  little  bonnet  of  hers,  and  doing  so 
much  good !  And  then  that  one  of  us  should 
go  and  steal  her  calf  from  her!  O,  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  it.  I  cannot  bear  it,  Isaac ! 
Love  and  union  and  charity,  —  where  are  they 
among  us  ?  Isaac,  if  you  had  come  to  me,  I 
would  have  paid  the  money  for  her  myself." 

"  She  is  old  enough  to  pay  for  herself,"  mut- 
tered the  clerk. 

"  A  poor,  lone  woman,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "  that 
has  got  no  husband  to  see  to  her  rights ! " 

"  She  has  had  her  rights,  and  more  than  her 
rights,  with  my  going  to  her  house  five  or  six 
times.  But  with  all  the  trouble  I  took,  she 


152  THORPE, 

would  not  pay;  but  said  she  would  testify 
against  Babylon.  And  when  I  told  her  that  she 
might  do  it,  if  she  wished,  and  yet  pay  me  the 
church-rate,  as  she  ought;  then  she  said  that  I 
was  a  dweller  at  Babylon,  and  a  vessel  in  the 
temple.  However,  I  should  not  have  minded  for 
that  much.  But  she  said  she  would  give  her 
testimony  against  me,  and  she  called  me  the  ser- 
vant of  a  woman,  and  said  that  the  woman  was 
arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet  color.  And  when 
she  said  that,  I  told  her  that  I  knew  what  she 
meant,  and  that  it  was  nothing  to  her  how  peo- 
ple dressed,  and  that  scarlet  was  as  good  a  color 
as  drab,  any  time.  There,  now!  That  is  what 
passed  between  us.  And  I  have  never  told  any 
body  of  it  before.  And  I  had  not  told  you ;  had 
I,  John  Nock  ?  And  I  say  now,  that  because  my 
wife  wears  a  scarlet  bonnet,  it  is  no  reason  I 
should  have  it  thrown  in  my  face  when  I  go  to 
collect  the  church-rate.  And  so,  the  last  time  I 
was  at  the  Grange,  I  determined  the  old  lady 
should  have  the  law  in  the  same  way  that  she 
would  have  it  in  any  other  parish.  And  I  went 
to  Justice  Burleigh's,  and  got  a  summons  for  her. 
There,  now !  That  was  the  way  of  it" 

John    Nock  took   off    his   hat  with   one   hand, 
while   he   held   the   calf  with  the   other;  and   he 


A    TALE.  153 

said,  "  Those  Quakers  are  very  peculiar  people, 
as  I  have  heard.  And  I  do  not  think  the  old 
lady  meant  Keeley  any  harm  by  what  she  said, 
in  calling  him  the  servant  of  a  scarlet  woman. 
For  while  Keeley  was  in  the  cow-shed  she  said 
the  same  thing  to  me.  And  I  have  never  had  a 
wife,  and  do  not  mean  to  have  either.  Her  say- 
ing that  we  came  from  Babylon,  and  calling  us 
vessels  in  the  temple  of  Mammon,  and  hirelings, 
and  men  after  the  manner  of  Achan,  —  with  it 
all,  I  think  she  meant  nothing,  but  only  some- 
thing of  her  religion." 

"And  now,"  said  the  farmer,  "let  us  do  what 
is  right,  if  we  can.  Eh,  moggy,  moggy !  Pretty 
calf!  How  it  keeps  smelling  at  me,  afe  if  it 
knew  me!  Does  not  it,  pretty  thing?  Well, 
well,  love  and  union  and  charity,  —  let  us  keep 
to  that.  And  now,  Isaac,  man,  if  I  have  said 
any  thing  to  offend  you  I  will  take  it  back,  for 
I  never  meant  it  so.  But  at  first  I  was  vexed 
more  than  a  little.  And  when  I  thought  of 
the  poor  widow  losing  this  calf,  —  God  pardon 
me !  —  but  I  did  not  know  whether  to  swear  or 
cry ;  for  I  felt  so  like  doing  both.  And  now, 
Isaac,  I  will  buy  the  calf,  and  we  will  send  it 
back  to  its  mother,  poor  thing ;  and  let  the  old 
lady  have  it  again." 


154  THORPE, 

"  We  cannot  do  that,"  said  the  constable. 
"  For  the  calf  cannot  be  sold  by  private  con- 
tract It  has  been  taken  by  distraint;  and  so  it 
will  have  to  be  sold  by  public  auction  in  the 
market-place.  For  that  is  the  law." 

"  Ah,  well,  soon  it  shall  go  back  again.  I  re- 
member, yesterday,  I  saw  the  lady  leaning  over 
the  garden-wall.  And  on  the  side  of  the  wall, 
in  the  pasture,  was  the  young  lady  holding  out 
her  hand  to  this  pretty  calf.  And  the  little  thing 
nibbled  at  it ;  and  then  frisked,  and  ran  away ; 
and  then  came  back,  and  then  frisked  again. 
And  there  stood  the  old  cow  close  by,  looking 
on,  and  enjoying  to  see  the  play  of  the  sweet 
young*  lady  and  the  pretty  calf.  And  behind, 
there  were  those  great  old  elm-trees,  with  the 
sun  shining  through  them.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight.  And  I  stopped  on  the  road  to  look  at  it. 
On  market-day,  then,  we  will  send  the  calf  back 
again.  Love  and  union  and  charity !  Do,  neigh- 
bors, let  us  keep  by  that!  And  let  us  thank 
God  that  we  know  how." 


A    TALE.  155 


XX. 

PERCY  COKE  had  come  to  Thorpe  on  a  visit 
to  his  uncle,  Mr.  George  Coke.  He  was  calling 
on  Mr.  Lingard,  and  was  conversing  with  him  in 
his  library. 

Said  the  minister,  "  Nature  is  of  religious  use, 
not  so  much  to  show  us  God,  as  to  justify 
our  hearts  to  our  understandings  for  believing  in 
him." 

Now  this  was  an  opinion  which  Percy  Coke 
had  himself  arrived  at,  with  long  study,  and 
much  conversation  with  learned  men,  of  many 
churches,  and  in  several  countries.  And  it  was 
a  conviction  which  he  had  thought  might  aid 
him  in  drawing  for  Christians  the  outline  of  a 
new  form  of  theology.  He  suppressed  his  sur- 
prise at  hearing  uttered  one  of  his  own  more 
private  thoughts,  and  said,  "  That,  —  wherever 
did  you  obtain  that  thought  ?  " 


156  THORPE, 

The  minister  answered,  "It  came  to  me  this 
morning,  as  I  sat  by  the  window  thinking.  And 
I  suppose  it  is  quite  true.  Because  in  nature  we 
can  discern  only  what  we  are  prepared  to  see. 
And  certainly,  also,  no  man  ever  yet  beheld  God 
in  earth  or  sky,  by  fixing  his  own  time  for  the 
sight,  or  by  going  out  of  his  house  and  saying, 
'  Now,  like  Adam,  I  will  walk  in  the .  garden 
and  hear  God.'  Communion  with  God,  —  it  is 
not  merely  of  the  will  or  the  intellect." 

"  A  fine  library  you  have,"  said  Percy  Coke. 
"  And  what  a  number  of  the  old  divines  stand 
ranged  upon  these  shelves !  Shall  I  confess  that 
I  hardly  know  any  thing  of  them  ?  They  stand 
here,  your  daily  companions.  Tell  me,  what  is 
your  opinion  of  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  they  are,  —  Latimer,  strong  and 
homely,  —  and  Taylor,  strong  and  scholarly  and 
poetical,  —  and  South,  making  religion  be  witty, 
and  wit  be  religious,  —  and  Barrow,  so  trust- 
worthy,—  and  John  Smith,  the  accomplished, — 
and  Henry  More,  the  opposite  of  a  materialist  in 
everything,  —  and  Farrindon,  who  walks  his  way 
so  sturdily,  letting  flash  out  suddenly  the  lamp  of 
his  genius  in  dark  places.  Yes,  and  there  is  Ful- 
ler there,  dear  Doctor  Thomas,  in  whose  eyes 
all  innocent  things  laughed,  and  even  vice  looked 


A    TALE.  157 

ludicrous.  And  there  is  Tillotson,  whom  I  have 
not  looked  at  for  many  years,  and  Hall,  and 
Bramhall,  and  Andrews,  and  Burroughs.  And 
there  is  Cudvvorth,  a  mine  to  explore  for  learning, 
and  a  tower  by  which  to  ascend  for  wide  specula- 
tion. And  there  is  Burton,  to  read  whose  Anat- 
omy of  Melancholy  Doctor  Johnson  once  got  up 
early.  And  next  to  him  stands  one  who  was 
no  father  of  the  Church,  but  only  a  son,  —  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian, 
quiet  and  earnest  and  wise,  laughing  always,  and 
always  only  in  his  heart." 

"  Go  on,  I  beg  you.  For  these  are  quite  new 
to  me  ;  old  as  they  are." 

"  O,  those  volumes  are  casuistical  divinity. 
Those  are  lectures  that  were  preached,  week  by 
week,  at  Cripplegate  and  other  places  in  London, 
—  discussions  of  cases  of  conscience." 

"  And  what  is  this  volume,  with  the  label  off, 
and  which  keeps  clean  with  being  used,  while- 
some  of  these  casuists  might  perhaps  be  a  little 
dusty,  if  they  were  stirred  ?  " 

"  That  is  Catena  Patrum,  —  a  chain  of  the 
Fathers.  And  laying  hold  of  that  book  reverent- 
ly, I  too  am  a  link  in  the  great  golden  chain 
that  runs  up  the  ages  to  Jesus  Christ,  —  the  suc- 
cession of  those  by  whose  reverent  acceptance 


158  THORPE, 

the  Divine  word  has  been  kept  lasting  on  in  the 
world,  and  speaking  for  a  while  Latin  instead  of 
Greek,  and  then  the  vernacular  instead  of  Latin, 
and  also  from  age  to  age  adapting  its  arguments 
to  the  varying  errors  and  the  fresh  perversities 
of  the  world." 

"  And  here  you  have  works  of  Aquinas,  A  Kem- 
pis,  Augustine.  These  I  should  hardly  have  ex- 
pected you  would  have  read.  Though  why  I 
should  have  thought  so,  I  do  not  know." 

"  I  count  it  essential  to  my  office,  to  keep  my- 
self familiar  with  some  of  those  old  writers.  I 
think  I  should  be  an  unfaithful  pastor,  if  I  did 
not.  For  it  is  only  through  me  that  my  congre- 
gation can  be  in  any  contact  with  the  Fathers 
and  the  great  Doctors  of  the  Church.  Farmer 
Welby  on  his  lands,  Abel  Pratt  behind  the  plough, 
John  Johnson  working  at  St.  Crispin's  trade,  — 
it  is  only  through  me  that  there  can  come  on 
to  them,  reach  them,  some  of  the  better  influ- 
ences of  antiquity.  My  congregation,  —  it  is 
through  me  that  they  are  to  be  kept  in  corre- 
spondence with  the  Past,  —  the  great,  earnest, 
wise,  meditative  Past." 

"  Right,  sir,  right.  And  it  is  by  men  like  you 
that  society  is  kept  from  degenerating.  For  how 
quickly  they  are  forgotten,  —  the  footsteps  of  the 


A    TALE.  159 

noblest,  even  in  places  that  were  once  their 
familiar  walk!  And  how  soon  they  perish, 
the  words  of  the  wise,  if  there  be  no  wise  man 
to  keep  repeating  them.  Lately,  where  the  gen- 
tle, thoughtful  Evelyn  dwelt  I  have  walked 
about,  but  I  » never  heard  there  one  word  that 
was  like  a  trace  of  him.  And  at  Twickenham 
there  is  nothing  survives  of  Pope  in  the  minds 
of  the  inhabitants,  except  his  name  and  fame, 
which  are  talked  of  in  a  way  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  there  are  some  of  the  apho- 
risms of  Pope  that  are  common  proverbs  now. 
You  have  not  heard  my  housekeeper  talk,  I 
think.  Her  conversation  is  almost  a  string  of 
proverbs.  And  they  are  traceable,  I  have  no 
doubt,  some  of  them  to  Pope,  and  some  to  Shak- 
speare,  and  some  to  Chaucer,  and  some  to  wits 
among  the  preaching  friars,  and  some,  I  am  cer- 
tain, to  Danish  settlers  and  Norman  conquerors. 
And  if  you  will  notice,  you  will  find  that  of 
the  peasantry,  especially  the  shrewder  portion, 
a  great  part  of  their  speech  is  of  the  character 
of  proverbs,  —  old  sayings,  —  phrases  caught  by 
the  son  from  the  father. 

"  Is  it  so  ?  Then  the  Past  does  live  on  in 
them,  of  itself." 

"  The    vulgar    Past  does.      No !       That   is    a 


160  THORPE, 

word  of  too  much  depreciation.  But  it  is  so, 
that,  for  the  most  part,  those  old  proverbs  are 
the  shrewd  utterances  of  the  natural  man,  not 
the  spiritual,  —  things  such  as  Dick  says  to  Jack, 
and  which  Jack  agrees  stand  to  reason." 

"  That,"  said  Percy  Coke,  "  that  is  as  I  should 
expect.  Just  as  there  are  countries  in  which 
all  the  people  would  pick  up  glass  beads,  and 
leave  lying  on  the  ground  pearls  of  great  price." 

"  Men  of  work,  worldly  effort  and  worldly 
struggle,  —  to  them,  talking  together,  the  readiest 
and  the  safest  things  to  say  are  maxims  of  world- 
ly prudence,  worldly  criticism,  worldly  comfort. 
And  it  is  as  we  see.  The  shrewdness  of  the  past 
gets  perpetuated  in  the  world,  so  much  more 
easily,  and  indeed  so  much  more  surely,  than  the 
devoutness  of  it,  or  the  humility,  or  the  faith." 

"  That  is  worth  thinking  of.  And  it  makes 
one  feel  the  necessity  there  is  for  the  Christian 
Church,  as  an  organization  conducive  to  civili- 
zation. And  I  have  been  thinking  that  it  is  a 
great  thing,  —  notable,  and  indeed  sublime,  —  the 
existence  in  a  small  town  of  a  library  like  this, 
with  you  in  it,  as  the  mouthpiece  of  ages  and 
nations,  poets,  philosophers,  and  divines." 

"  Through  me  Chrysostom  still  making  his 
voice  heard,  and  Augustine  uttering  now  and 


A    TALE. 

then  some  of  his  better  sayings,  —  those  words 
of  a  man  so  wise  in  the  struggles  of  the  soul.1' 

"  Yes,  and  I  fancy  that  they  speak  in  your 
voice  with  less  alloy  of  error  than  when  they 
preached  with  their  own  lips.  But  indeed  it  is 
a  wonderful  thing  to  think  of,  for  the  manner 
in  which  it  has  come  to  pass,  and  in  itself  it  is 
a  great  thing,  that  these  farmers  and  artisans 
and  laborers  —  men  indigenous  to  these  acres  — 
should  have  for  their  friend  and  counsellor  a 
man  who  is  the  intimate  acquaintance  of  Au- 
gustine, and  the  friend  of  Aquinas,  and  the  com- 
panion of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  the  fellow-wor- 
shipper of  George  Herbert." 

"  In  that  Temple  of  which  the  width  is  what 
only  God  knows,  though  known  to  every  body 
is  its  chief  corner-stone,  Jesus  Christ,"  said  the 
minister. 

"Well  said.  And  here,  —  a  German  edition, 
—  here  you  have  Plato." 

"  Whom  you  are  better  able  to  describe  than 
I  am,  I  do  not  doubt." 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  said  Percy  Coke, 
"  what  you  think  is  the  reason  of  the  difference 
between  the  forms  into  which  ancient  and  mod- 
ern writers  put  their  thoughts.  With  the  mod- 
erns, the  utterance  of  philosophy  is  a  monologue. 
11 


162  THORPE, 

But  with  the  ancients  it  was  not  so.  Even 
Plato  does  not  sit  down  by  himself  and  solilo- 
quize. But  up  the  heights  of  philosophy,  by 
paths  of  his  own  discovery,  he  takes  his  friends. 
And  on  some  lofty  summit  he  and  they  sit  down 
together,  and,  breathing  the  pure  of  heaven,  they 
discourse  together  on  the  subject  of  the  world 
below,  —  the  fools  in  it,  and  how  men  may  be- 
come wise,  —  on  life,  its  mystery  and  tendencies, 
—  on  the  horrible  character  of  a  people  spoiled 
by  lawlessness  and  the  sophists,  —  on  the  soul, 
and  the  divine  light  which  comes  with  it  into 
the  world,  a  light  though  so  soon  altered  from 
the  divine  to  the  devilish  by  being  fed  with  the 
oil  of  sensuality.  The  writings  of  Plato  are 
almost  only  dialogues." 

"  And  of  our  earlier  modern  literature  there 
was  much  which  assumed  a  dramatic  form.  Of 
the  Scriptures  you  know  what  is  the  literary 
texture.  But  as  to  your  question,  I  cannot  an- 
swer. But  I  suppose  the  answer  to  it  is  in  the 
dogmatic  character  which  has  come  over  philos- 
ophy from  the  sectarianism  of  our  times,  and 
perhaps  in  a  confidence  of  opinion,  which  is 
willing  to  shun  as  unnecessary  the  little  room 
for  uncertainty  left  open  between  the  persons  of 
two  speakers." 


A    TALE.  163 

"  That  last  is  the  real  reason,  I  think,"  said 
Percy  Coke.  "  I  do  not  know  why ;  but  to-day 
it  does  strike  me  as  something  great  and  remark- 
able, the  existence  of  this  library  in  a  place  like 
this  Thorpe.  O  these  books,  so  many  and  in 
so  many  languages!  Only  to  be  amongst  them 
is  a  something  of  responsibility.  These  authors, 
one  in  a  voice  from  afar  off  like  a  waterfall,  — 
another  in  the  low,  gentle  murmur  of  sorrow,  — 
another  in  the  decisive,  solemn  tones  of  a  judge, 
—  and  another  in  the  sweet,  musical  words  of 
a  poet,  —  all  these  authors,  hundreds  of  them, 
calling  to  the  conscientious  student,  '  Let  me  be 
heard,' " 

"  And  along  with  them,  though  of  a  diviner 
sound  and  another  origin  than  they,  and  more 
rightful  in  its  solicitations,  the  Word  that  is  the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever." 

"  And  then  there  are  the  historians  of  it,  and 
the  translators  of  it,  and  the  commentators  on  it. 
For  many  men  it  must  be  a  great  temptation  and 
a  welcome  belief,  —  the  fancy  which  has  its  zeal- 
ous advocates  just  now,  —  that  in  the  soul  there 
is  an  intuitive  and  spontaneous  perception  of  all 
spiritual  truth." 

"  The  first  five  years  of  my  ministry  I  preached 
with  great  satisfaction  to  myself  and  my  people. 


164  THORPE, 

Yet  all  the  while  I  was  preaching  the  doctrine 
of  Confucius,  and  not  the  Gospel  of  our  Lord  and 
Saviour  Jesus  Christ.  I  preached  to  the  souls  of 
men,  without  myself  being  conscious  of  a  soul,  — 
a  soul  convinced  of  sin,  sensible  of  the  world's 
mystery,  wretched  with  its  own  helplessness,  and 
open  to  the  Holy  Spirit." 

"  How  do  you  mean  that  you  once  preached 
the  doctrine  of  Confucius  ?  " 

"  I  preached  morals,  excellent  morals,  and 
thought  they  were  Christianity.  And  they  are 
not  the  whole  of  Christianity,  nor  indeed  what 
is  most  peculiar  in  it.  Have  you  ever  read  the 
Moral  Sentences  of  Confucius  ?  Because,  if  you 
have,  you  must  know  that  there  are  some  per- 
sons whose  Christianity  is  indeed  older  than 
Christ." 

"  No,  I  have  not  seen  them.  But  I  should 
have  thought  that  into  your  present  opinion  your 
mind  had  unfolded  gradually,  and  from  your 
youth  upwards." 

"  No,"  said  the  minister,  "  no !  More  truly 
than  so,  by  my  mental  history,  I  am  a  man  of 
this  age,  —  this  age  so  woful  for  the  deep,  ear- 
nest thinker,  —  this  age,  when  of  all  institutions 
and  principles  the  foundations  seem  loosened 
from  beneath,  and  when  there  come,  blown  in 


A    TALE.  165 

upon  us  to  darken  and  blight  us,  heavy  fogs  of 
unbelief,  from  that  wide,  sullen  ocean  that  rolls 
in  upon  the  island  of  our  human  existence, — 
the  ocean  of  nothingness,  and  death,  and  igno- 
rance." 

Here  Percy  Coke  turned  to  the  window,  and 
tears  started  to  his  eyes.  The  minister  thought 
he  was  merely  looking  into  the  garden ;  and  so 
finished  what  he  was  saying  :  "  Strange  time ! 
when  everywhere  there  is  contention  for  the 
Gospel,  and  so  little  knowledge  of  it!  But  I, 
here,  —  I  strive  to  be,  not  of  the  time  nor  of  the 
world,  but  of  the  Church.  As  a  Christian  I  have 
other,  greater  helps,  which  I  find  real  and  effec- 
tive. But  yet,  sitting  in  meditation  in  this  room, 
there  reach  me  from  the  great  ages  of  the  past 
lights  not  feeble,  and  helpful  voices  my  heart 
leaps  at.  Yes,  whatever  else  be  true  or  false, — 
my  struggles  now  over,  and  my  misgivings  and 
doubts  all  over  now,  —  I  am  conscious  of  Christ 
in  my  heart,  the  hope  of  glory.  And  by  the 
lights  that  gleam  up  the  ages,  I  see  distinctly 
to  Calvary,  and  into  the  awful  darkness,  and  on 
the  cross,  and  on  to  the  death  that  is  life." 

Here  Percy  Coke  turned  from  the  window  in 
some  little  agitation,  and  rather  suddenly  took 
his  leave. 


166  THORPE, 


XXI. 

ON  the  Friday  morning  after  the  talk  on  the 
bridge,  Martin  May  went  into  Thorpe.  It  was 
market-day;  and  all  round  the  old  cross  were 
rows  of  booths,  at  which  were  sold  butter  and 
eggs,  and  ducks  and  chickens,  vegetables,  and 
meat,  and  confectionery.  And  at  one  end  of  the 
square  were  pens  full  of  pigs,  sheep,  and  oxen. 
Nearly  all  the  ladies  of  Thorpe  were  out  in  the 
market,  buying  their  weekly  stock  of  provisions 
for  the  larder.  It  was  a  busy,  lively,  pleasant 
scene. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  market  a  man  was  sell- 
ing pins,  made  by  machinery,  as  all  pins  are 
now.  And  in  a  loud  voice  he  sang  some  doggerel 
verses  on  the  uses  and  excellence  of  his  pins. 
But  he  was  utterly  ignorant  of  there  being  in 
existence  an  old  act  of  Parliament  of  the  reign 
of  Henry  the  Eighth,  according  to  which  no 


A    TALE.  167 

person  ought  to  offer  for  sale  any  other  pins 
than  what  are  double-headed,  and  have  the  heads 
soldered  fast  to  the  shank,  and  are  well  smoothed, 
and  have  the  shank  well  shaven,  and  the  point 
well  filed  and  sharpened. 

Not  far  from  the  man  with  the  pins,  and  close 
by  the  whipping-post,  with  nobody  near  him,  a 
blind  man  led  by  a  dog  in  a  string  was  singing 
the  ballad  of  Lord  Bateman's  Daughter.  And 
as  the  vender  of  the  pins  did  not  know  that  he 
was  selling  what  was  contrary  to  the  law,  so 
this  blind  beggar,  by  wearing  a  red  cap,  did  not 
know  that  he  was  complying  with  a  law  enacted 
in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  according 
to  which  on  Sabbaths  and  holidays  every  person 
above  the  age  of  seven  years  ought  to  wear  a 
cap  of  wool,  knit  and  dressed  in  England. 

Among  all  the  persons  in  the  market,  the  most 
conspicuous  was  the  bellman,  —  a  short  man, 
and  very  corpulent.  He  was  a  person  of  many 
offices.  He  was  a  constable,  a  beadle  at  St. 
John's  Church,  a  clerk  in  a  court  of  law,  a  head- 
borough  or  inspector  of  weights  and  measures, 
and  bellman  or  town-crier.  He  was  dressed  in 
scarlet  breeches,  a  scarlet  waistcoat,  and  a  plush- 
colored  coat  richly  ornamented  with  gilt  lace. 
And  he  wore  a  three-cornered  hat.  In  his  hand 


168  THORPE, 

he  held  a  tall,  thick  staff,  surmounted  by  a  gilt 
bell.  From  his  pompous  look  and  slow  move- 
ments it  might  have  been  thought  that  in  him 
were  embodied  all  the  law  and  magistracy  of 
the  whole  county.  And  yet  he  was  only  the 
bellman  of  Thorpe. 

Exactly  as  the  church  clock  struck  twelve 
an  auctioneer  mounted  the  steps  of  the  cross,  and 
sold  the  calf  which  had  been  distrained  from 
Grace  Thoroughgood  for  the  church-rate.  It 
was  bought  by  Farmer  Welby,  and  was  imme- 
diately returned  to  the  Grange. 

Close  by  the  church  gates  there  was  an  ex- 
hibition of  Punch  and  Judy.  In  appearance  it 
was  something  like  a  clock-case,  with  puppets 
playing  in  a  little  chamber  at  the  top.  Inside  the 
case  stood  the  man,  who  made  the  figures  move 
and  talk.  Around  this  exhibition  there  was  a 
crowd  assembled,  rejoicing  in  Punch  for  his  im- 
moral opinions,  his  wit  and  lawlessness,  and  es- 
pecially for  his  wicked  treatment  of  the  consta- 
ble, who  came  to  arrest  him  for  his  conduct  to- 
wards his  wife.  Exactly  opposite  this  show 
Martin  May  met  the  bellman,  who  was  red  in 
the  face,  and  held  out  at  arm's  length  his  tall 
staff  with  the  gilt  head. 

"  A  very  improper  concern  to  be  allowed,  this 


A    TALE.  169 

is,"  said  the  bellman,  "because  it  is  calculated 
to  draw  the  authorities  into  contempt.  And  in 
my  opinion  it  ought  to  be  brought  under  the 
Act  for  the  Suppression  of  Vagrants.  I  do  not 
know  what  your  opinion  is,  but  that  is  mine,  sir." 

"  Well,  myself,"  said  Martin  May,  "  I  think 
any  thing  is  wrong  which  abates  respect  for 
righteous  authorities  properly  constituted." 

"  You  are  a  very  sensible  man,  Mr.  May.  But 
these  fools  here  laughing  at  dolls " 

"  Dolls,  sir ! "  said  Martin  May,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise.  "Dolls  do  you  call  them,  those  sem- 
blances of  man  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  do  not  think  them  any  thing  else ! " 

"  Dolls,  sir!  To  me  they  are  typical  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  representative  of  the  problem 
of  existence  in  its  development." 

"  I  am  no  scholar ;  but  what  I  do  know  is, 
that  there  is  a  man  inside  the  curtain." 

"  Are  you  sure?  Have  you  ever  seen  him 
come  out  ?  For  I  never  have.  And  I  have  often 
watched  for  him." 

The  bellman  was  a  superstitious  man,  and  be- 
lieved in  ghosts,  and  magic,  and  witchcraft. 
And,  deceived  by  the  gravity  of  Martin  May,  he 
began  almost  to  fancy  that  the  exhibition  was 
not  a  mere  affair  of  vagrants. 


170  THORPE, 

Martin  May  continued,  "  I  know  it  is  the  com- 
mon opinion  that  they  are  merely  puppets  to 
laugh  at.  But  I  do  not  laugh  at  them,  for  I 
can  see  that  there  belongs  to  them  that  by  which 
they  are  some  little  akin  to  men  and  women. 
You  see  they  act  and  talk." 

"  But  is  not  it  because  they  are  made  to," 
asked  the  bellman,  his  dignity  collapsing  in  him. 

"  And  has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  that  there 
is  a  power  behind  you,  which  walks  you  about 
and  makes  you  talk  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  magistrates  ?  " 

"  No,  I  mean  a  power  that  is  aback  of  the 
magistrates  as  well  as  yourself." 

"  Ah,  then,  that  must  be  the  lord-lieutenant  of 
the  county,"  said  the  bellman,  beginning  to  re- 
cover from  his  bewilderment. 

"  Something  like  it.  That  warrant  you  showed 
me  down  at  the  Dell " 

"  I  have  served  it,  and  the  man  is  fast  in 
prison." 

"  And  at  the  beginning  of  the  warrant  was 
it  not  said  that  the  man  was  instigated  by  the 
Devil?" 

"  Yes,  always  that  is  what  it  begins  with." 

"  And  among  all  these  people  here,  do  not 
you  think  there  are  instigations  good  and  bad, 


A    TALE.  171 

that  move  one  man  one  way,  and  another  man 
another,  making  them  feel  and  talk  and  act  and 
be  just  like  these  puppets  ?  Well,  it  is  so.  Now 
on  this  account  there  are  persons  who  believe  in 
the  doctrines  of  pantheism.  But  myself  I  do  not. 
Though  I  agree  with  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  who 
says  he  is  sure  there  is  a  common  spirit  that  plays 
within  us,  and  yet  makes  no  part  of  us." 

Again  the  man  of  office  was  bewildered.  Yet 
from  the  sound  of  the  last  two  or  three  words 
he  thought  there  had  been  something  said  which 
he  ought  to  understand.  At  last  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  concession,  "  May  be  so.  Though  any 
thing  that  sounds  like  that  I  have  never  heard 
before  out  of  church." 

"  And  of  course  it  is  what  we  all  understand 
and  believe  while  we  are  in  the  church.  But  this 
exhibition  here,  —  I  think  its  metaphysical  use- 
fulness is  very  great.  And  on  reflection,  sir,  you 
must  yourself  perceive  it,  I  am  sure." 

The  bellman  looked  flattered,  and  his  glance 
at  Punch  was  less  ferocious. 

"  Are  you  aware,"  Martin  May  asked,  « that  the 
beginning  of  this  exhibition  was  with  the  mys- 
teries, the  moralities,  which  were  a  kind  of  play 
that  used  to  be  acted  in  the  churches  ? " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  bellman  in  a  tone  of  triumph, 


172  TflORPE, 

"  that  must  have  been  in  the  times  of  ignorance, 
when  the  Papists  had  the  churches,  and  did  in 
them  any  thing  they  liked.  For  I  have  been 
told  by  the  clerk,  that  just  inside  the  door  of  this 
very  church,  in  the  hole  in  the  wall,  there  used 
to  be  water  for  the  people  to  dip  their  hands  in. 
Any  thing  they  liked,  those  Papists  used  to  do 
in  church." 

"  Well,"  said  Martin  May,  "  and  now  what 
do  you  do  in  church  ?  " 

"  Do !  Why,  do  not  you  know,  sir  ?  Do  not 
you  come  to  church  ?  Do  !  We  do  nothing." 

"  Do  not  you  think  their  brains  are  like  strings 
that  are  played  on,  —  these  people's?" 

"  These  poor  people's  ?  O,  yes,  and  nothing 
better." 

"  Like  strings  in  a  harp,  some  stretched  to  one 
note,  and  some  to  another.  And  there  sweeps 
among  them  some  invisible  breath  of  life,  and 
makes  them  thrill  with  thought  and  feeling 
and  incitement  to  action.  So  that,  when  you 
with  a  warrant  in  your  hand  arrest  a  man  who 
has  been  instigated  by  the  Devil,  it  is  really 
the  plastic  spirit  of  the  universe  turning  in  upon 
itself.  And  you  are  not  yourself,  though  you 
think  you  are ;  and  the  criminal  is  not  himself 
either." 


A    TALE.  173 

"  Well,"  said  the  bellman  in  a  tone  of  apology, 
"  I  must  confess  I  was  not  quite  myself  that 
day.  But  though  you  noticed  it,  I  hope  you 
will  not  speak  of  it.  But  that  man,  sir,  that 
criminal,  was  a  desperate  character,  as  I  knew, 
and  so  I  thought  to  strengthen  myself  against 
him  by  calling  at  the  Hare  and  Hounds.  You 
know  the  house,  sir :  a  very  respectable  house. 
And  Sir  Thomas  Browne  I  have  great  respect 
for.  He  is  a  justice  of  the  quorum.  He  does  not 
often  attend  the  monthly  meeting  of  the  magis- 
trates, because  it  is  so  far  from  Browne  Castle 
to  Thorpe.  But  when  he  is  present,  it  is  a  great 
satisfaction  to  us  officers." 

"  We  do  understand  one  another,"  said  Mar- 
tin May. 

"  I  hope  so,  sir,"  said  the  bellman  cheerfully. 

"  I  am  sure  so,  for  myself.     Good  morning ! " 

Martin  May  went  in  at  the  churchyard  gate, 
and  seated  himself  upon  a  tomb.  After  a  little 
time  of  meditation  he  said  to  himself,  "  With 
Punch  to  look  at,  and  that  bellman  to  talk  with, 
I  have  come  to  understand  that  pantheistic  phi- 
losophy, I  think.  It  is  the  philosophy  of  a  head 
that  has  never  had  rise  up  to  it  one  thought  from 
out  of  the  heart.  It  is  the  delusion  of  a  man 
of  no  heart,  no  hand,  no  purpose.  A  pantheist 


174  THORPE, 

weeping  at  a  grave  would  be  an  absurdity. 
When  it  can  be,  it  is  well  that  the  dead  should 
be  arribng  us.  With  the  dead  beneath  our  feet, 
and  the  sun  overhead,  and  in  our  ears  the  sound 
of  people  close  by,  who  labor  and  suffer,  and  love 

* 

and  sorrow,  and  who  are  earnest  with  things 
hard  to  bear,  or  painful  to  obtain,  or  liable  to  be 
lost  in  a  place  like  this,  —  in  this  place  of  the  dead 
with  the  living  about,  —  one  cannot  do  otherwise 
than  believe  in  God,  that  he  is  God.  And  yet 
we  might  be  no  more  than  puppets,  were  we 
to  be  judged  of  by  the  manner  in  which  some 
men  are  wrought  upon  by  prejudices,  suspicions, 
fears,  sorrows,  and  ambition.  A  right  feeling 
about  life,  and  what  it  is  in  God's  eye,  —  a  man 
cannot  have  it  form  in  his  mind  by  the  mere 
ingenuity  of  logic.  He  can  hope  for  it  reason- 
ably only  by  keeping  on  the  ways  of  nature, 
and  by  living  a  life  of  labor  and  rest,  conversa- 
tion, and  joy  and  sorrow,  and  prayer,  —  by  let- 
ting every  emotion  of  his  heart  have  its  proper 
expression,  and  yield  its  proportionate  influence 
to  the  temple  of  his  soul,  and  so  to  his  manner 
of  judgment.  Not  puppets,  not  animated  dust, 
are  we,  but  souls,  living  souls!  We  are  souls 
God  has  made  for  his  own  joy,  —  creatures  for  his 
Godhead  to  circle  in  its  arms,  and  to  brood  over 


A    TALE.  175 

with  its  fatherly  love.  Our  prayers,  —  he  may 
know  that  they  are  coming,  yet  he  loves  to  have 
them  come  up  to  him.  In  our  ignorance,  not 
that  we  can  honor  him  or  help  him !  But  he 
loves  to  feel  us  groping  after  him,  even  though 
blindly,  as  well  as  in  the  dark." 


THORPE, 


XXII. 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  September,  John  West 
had  come  from  Manchester  to  Thorpe,  on  a  visit 
to  the  Dell  for  a  day.  In  conversation  Martin 
May  said,  "  Do  you  know  Mr.  Coke  ?  I  think 
I  have  heard  his  name,  as  that  of  a  public  man 
in  Manchester." 

"  Yes,  and  the  terror  of  the  Tories." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"  Yes.  And  by  a  high  authority  he  has  been 
pronounced  the  most  effective  orator  of  the  day, 
if  not  the  most  eloquent.  O,  they  are  wonderful, 
—  his  power  of  sarcasm,  his  accurate  knowledge, 
his  presence  of  mind,  and  sometimes  his  vehe- 
mence, and  at  other  times  his  imperturbable 
calmness !  There  have  been  few  men  who  have 
stood  forth  more  bravely  than  he  against  oppres- 
sion, and  in  behalf  of  the  poor." 

"  You  confirm  the  impression  I  had  taken  of 
him  from  conversing  with  him." 


A    TALE.  177 

"  I  have  seen  conceited  men  address  him,  and 
with  only  speaking  to  him  evidently  they  have 
felt  themselves  confuted.  On  some  public  occa- 
sion I  have  known  him  be  surrounded  by  oppo- 
nents and  the  shouts  of  an  angry  mob.  And 
amid  it  all  he  stood  calm  and  confident.  And 
then,  almost  without  his  speaking  a  word,  there 
receded  from  about  him  all  opposition ;  just  as 
the  sea  subsides  of  itself  from  about,  a  rock,  and 
leaves  it  standing  firm,  and  apparently  even  higher 
than  before.  But  the  minister,  —  I  hope  you  un- 
derstand him ;  for  if  you  do,  you  must  admire 
him.  I  admire  him  very  much.  And  I  owe  him 
much  for  the  good  he  has  done  me.  His  influ- 
ence over  me  is  very  great.  And  yet  how  it  is 
exerted  1  hardly  know.  Often  and  often  he 
says  things,  from  which  I  could  almost  suppose 
that  he  had  looked  into  my  mind,  and  seen  what 
was  wanting  there.  Sometimes,  in  conversation, 
he  leads  me  away  to  topics  corrective  of  my 
morbid  feelings.  And  I  become  aware  of  what 
he  has  done  with  me  only  when  I  find  myself 
high  up  above  the  gloomy  mists,  with  wholesome 
air  about  me  and  the  bright  heavens  overhead. 
And  how  finely  he  talks,  does  not  he?  Such  a 
noble,  solemn  strain  of  thought  as  there  is  in  his 
conversation  sometimes ! " 
12 


178  THORPE, 

"  And  such  a  wide  acquaintance,  West,  as 
he  has  with  old  writers ! " 

"  Yes,  May.  But  have  you  noticed  how  he 
uses  them  ?  Though  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
does  not  know  himself.  ,He  seldom  quotes  from 
an  author  for  the  purpose  of  sustaining  himself 
in  an  argument.  But  when  he  is  uneasy  at  the 
turn  which  conversation  is  taking,  or  when  him- 
self he  feels  dull,  then  he  quotes  some  old  poet 
or  divine.  But  he  does  dearly  love  an  old  book. 
Last  summer,  on  his  way  to  dine  with  a  friend, 
he  lost  more  than  an  hour  by  happening  on 
horseback  to  take  out  of  his  pocket  a  volume 
which  he  had  never  read.  He  read  in  it  page 
after  page,  till  the  horse  stopped  with  him  at  a 
door  five  miles  away  from  the  house  he  was 
going  to.  I  suppose  all  the  while  that  he  must 
have  had  some  unconscious  care  of  the  horse ; 
for  he  is  a  good  horseman,  and  can  take  a  leap 
like  a  huntsman  almost." 

"  But  a  man  of  his  character  and  situation 
and  domestic  tastes,  —  how  is  it  that  he  has 
never  been  married." 

"  Well  for  him  that  he  has  not  been,  perhaps. 
Years  ago  he  was  engaged  to  a  lady.  So  it  is 
said." 

"Was  he,  indeed?     Who  was  she?" 


A    TALE.         .  179 

"  You  know  her,  I  think.  At  least  you  have 
seen  her,  —  Miss  Barbara  Shehnerdine." 

"  What !  That  duchess  !  A  woman  that  is 
a  lady  evidently,  and  a  very  superior  lady,  and 
yet  perhaps  some  little  —  possibly  some  very, 
very  little  of  a  shrew." 

"  The  same.  Though  I  do  not  believe,  and 
indeed  I  feel  quite  sure,  that  there  never  was  an 
engagement  between  the  minister  and  her." 

"  Ah,  well,  supposing  there  was  once,  then 
how  was  it  broken  off?  " 

"  But  there  never  was  any  engagement  be- 
tween them  of  a  matrimonial  nature,  I  believe. 
And  so  it  is  not  worth  while  telling  what  peo- 
ple say  was  the  manner  of  its  being  broken. 
But  I  will  tell  you  what  -I  do  know  to  be  true. 
I  was  told  it  by  the  poor  woman  concerned  in 
it.  And  I  think  perhaps  she  has  never  told  any 
one  else.  One  day  the  minister  called  upon 
her  at  her  house.  And  on  opening  the  parlor 
door,  he  saw  and  heard  Miss  Shelmerdine  in  a 
passion  with  a  poor  dressmaker,  who  stood  at 
her  table  pale  and  crying.  It  is  possible  that 
the  minister  may  have  caught  a  word  or  a 
look  of  the  lady's  excitement.  The  presence  of 
a  lady  like  her  in  a  rage,  —  what  a  situation 
for  him  to  be  in,  was  not  it?  And  then  that 


180  THORPE, 

the  poor  dressmaker  should  be  standing  there, 
and  needing  some  word  in  her  behalf!  Just  a 
word  or  two  the  minister  said,  and  then  drew 
back  from  his  unlucky  entrance.  '  The  orna- 
ment of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit!  See  in  yon- 
der glass  what  a  loss  it  is!'  Cannot  you  con- 
ceive of  how  he  said  it  in  that  odd  tone  which 
he  has  at  times,  half  roguish,  half  sorrowful?" 

"  What  an  unfortunate  occurrence  !  But  the 
lady  was  at  the  chapel  last  Sunday." 

"  And  always  attends  there  very  regularly, 
when  she  is  in  Thorpe." 

"  But  is  she  of  that  violent  temper  still,  do 
you  think?" 

"  No ;  I  do  not  think  she  is  so  at  all.  Indeed, 
I  think  very  highly  of  her,  as  a  lady  of  many  ac- 
complishments, much  benevolence,  and  great  ener- 
gy. And  she  is  very  cheerful  and  very  religious." 

"But  then  what  an  incident  in  her  life  for 
the  minister  to  witness!  How  could  one  ever 
forget  such  a  sight?  But  religious,  beneficent, 
cheerful,  energetic,  accomplished !  That  is  a 
noble  character.  And  yet  what  a  discord  with 
it  your  anecdote  makes ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  John  West,  "  it  is  in  the  finest 
strain  of  music  that  a  momentary  jar  sounds 
the  worst." 


A    TALE.  181 

"  And,"  said  Martin  May,  "  all  the  more  wise 
and  good  and  beautiful  is  the  character  of  any 
person,  so  much  the  more  repulsive  sounds  one 
foolish  word  from  him,  or  an  improper  utterance, 
or  one  incorrect  speech ;  and  yet  perhaps  it  may 
have  been  elicited  from  him  in  some  moment 
of  nervous  irritation,  or  wayward  feeling,  or 
hasty,  bewildered  thought.  Sometimes  we  dis- 
like a  person  for  an  action  all  the  more,  the 
more  unlike  him  we  feel  it  is.  But  surely  this 
is  not  reasonable." 


182 


THORPE, 


XXIII. 

WHILE  the  minister  was  at  his  breakfast,  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite  stood  by  the  door  of  the  study,  and 
said,  "  If  you  please,  sir,  I  have  finished  what 
you  told  me  to  do  last  night.  They  say  that 
every  potter  praises  his  own  pot,  and  the  more 
if  it  be  broken.  Yet  I  think  I  have  done  it  well, 
though  I  say  it  that  should  not  say  it.  And 
sir,  it  is  like  the  old  saying,  that  my  cow  gives  a 
good  mess  of  milk  and  then  kicks  it  down ;  for 
all  the  pears  are  blown  down  off  the  tree  at  the 
corner." 

"  Are  they  ripe,  —  quite  ripe  ?  Then  you  may 
divide  them  among  the  children  in  the  school. 
Though  it  will  be  better  to  let  the  teacher  dis- 
tribute them." 

"  It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good ; 
and  last  night  it  was  a  good  wind  for  the  chil- 
dren. And,  sir,  I  have  been  to  see  that  woman 


A    TALE.  183 

that  came  here  to  beg.  And  it  is  quite  true, 
what  I  told  you.  And  it  makes  it  true,  what  I 
said,  —  all  saint  outside,  and  devil  within." 

«  What !     Is  she  so  thoroughly  bad  ?  " 

"  She  tried  to  excuse  herself.  But  I  told  her 
that  crows  are  never  the  whiter  for  washing. 
When  she  saw  that  I  had  found  her  out,  then 
she  pretended  to  cry.  However,  I  let  her  know 
that  I  was  not  so  cunning  but  I  knew  what 
weather  it  was  when  it  rained.  But  then,  sir, 
she  has  been  badly  brought  up ;  and  so  she  really 
is  excusable  a  little.  And  so  it  might  be  proper, 
perhaps,  to  allow  her  something  out  of  the  poor's 
money,  because,  as  they  say,  one  might  as  well 
be  out  of  the  world  as  be  beloved  by  nobody  in 
it.  But  then  a  person  may  buy  gold  too  dear. 
And  to  lick  honey  from  thorns  is  to  pay  too  dear 
for  it.  But  then,  again,  we  are  all  Adam's  chil- 
dren, though  silk  makes  a  difference.  But  the 
woman  is  not  worse  than  old  Sally,  and  perhaps 
is  not  as  bad.  And  that  shows,  again,  that  one 
man  may  steal  a  horse  while  another  must  not. 
look  over  the  hedge." 

"  But,   Mrs.   Satterthwaite,   you    cannot    mean 
that  old  Sally  has  ever  been  a  horse-stealer  ?  " 

"  O,  no,  sir !   no,  sir !     And  there   now !     That 
shows   how   true   the   old  saying  is,   that  wit  is 


THORPE, 

folly,  unless  a  wise  man  has  the  keeping  of  it. 
And  sir,  last  evening,  while  you  were  out,  Mr. 
West  called  with  Mr.  May." 

"John  West?     And  how  was  he?" 

"  O,  sir,  quite  well.  Merry  and  wise,  —  that 
is  what  he  is.  Once,  a  long  while  ago,  when  he 
was  a  boy,  and  his  father  had  set  him  to  do  some 
work  which  he  did  not  like,  I  said  to  him,  that 
care  killed  a  cat,  but  there  was  no  living  without 
it.  And  so  now  when  he  sees  me  he  says  to 
me  always,  that  there  is  no  living  without  what 
killed  the  cat.  A  fool  may  chance  to  put  some- 
thing into  a  wise  man's  head.  And  that  is  what 
I  put  into  his." 

"  He  is  prospering  at  Manchester." 

"  O,  yes,  he  is  making  hay  now  while  the 
sun  shines.  And  he  can,  because  at  the  begin- 
ning he  was  willing  to  cut  his  coat  according 
to  his  cloth,  and  to  plough  with  such  oxen  as 
he  had." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  minister,  "  when  John  West 
was  a^  youth,  he  was  very  promising.  And  now 
it  is  very  delightful  to  see  what  an  excellent  man 
he  is." 

"  Sir,  an  idle  brain  is  the  Devil's  workshop. 
And  when  Mr.  John  was  a  boy  he  never  kept  it. 
Always  he  had  his  wits  about  him,  and  could 


A    TALE. 


185 


tell  that  forecast  is  better  than  hard  work.  And 
so  now  he  is  a  gentleman,  because  of  his  believ- 
ing that  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way, 
and  that  if  you  would  be  Pope  you  must  think 
of  nothing  else." 

"  And  how  was  Mr.  May  ?  He  has  been  away 
from  the  Dell  for  a  week,  has  not  he,  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  and  Mr.  John,  —  they  are  hand 
and  glove.  He  says  now  he  gets  to  be  as  hun- 
gry as  a  church  mouse.  Though  I  know  once 
at  his  food  he  was  as  nice  as  a  nun's  hen. 
But  he  knows  now  that  hunger  is  the  best  sauce, 
and  that  medicines  are  not  meant  to  live  on. 
And  so  he  will  soon  find  that  health  is  better 
than  wealth." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  still  he  is  improving 
in  health." 

"  And,  sir,  there  is  come  to  Mr.  Robert  Gen- 
tle's the  lady  that  was  on  a  visit  there,  and  was 
ill,  five  or  six  years  ago,  —  Miss  Lawton.  She. 
is  a  cousin  of  the  Gentles.  You  must  remem- 
ber her,  certainly.  A  very  beautiful  lady  she 
used  to  be,  and  very  lively.  And  she  used  to 
talk  very  sweetly,  though  sometimes  very  seri- 
ously. Poor  woman  !  By  her  look  I  do  not 
think  she  has  been  happy.  For  now  she  seems 


186  THORPE, 

so  timid,  and  like  one  who  had  been  expecting 
bad  news  for  a  long  time.  What  it  is  I  do 
not  know.  But  I  am  sure,  —  poor,  dear  woman, 
—  that  her  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness." 


A    TALE.  187 


XXIV. 

THERE  was  a  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  behind  Mrs.  Gentle's  house.  And  in  it, 
one  warm  afternoon  of  October,  sat  Mr.  George 
Coke  and  Louisa  Lawton. 

"  And  you  do  not  despise  me,  you  do  not 
think  it  was  wrong  in  me,"  said  the  lady,  "  that 
I  wrote  that  letter  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  How  could  I  ?  For  do  not  I  know 
you  ?  Never  for  a  moment  has  there  been  a 
word  or  action  of  yours  that  I  have  misunder- 
stood. The  honor,  the  tenderness,  the  purity, 
the  generosity,  the  humility,  the  religiousness  of 
your  nature,  —  do  not  I  know  them  all  like  the 
familiar  strings  of  a  harp?  And  whenever  there 
sweeps  through  them  some  breath  of  resolution, 
do  not  I  know  —  and  even  if  I  could  not  feel, 
yet  must  not  I  know  and  be  sure  —  how  heav- 
enly the  music  that  is  made?  Ah,  no!  What- 


188  THORPE, 

ever  you  have  been  moved  to  speak,  —  always 
it  has  been  to  me  what  I  have  been  humbled 
with,  for  it  has  been  so  good.  And  yet  also  it 
has  been  so  kind,  that  always  with  thinking  of 
it  all  my  soul  has  flowed  toward  you  in  confi- 
dence." 

As  though  she  had  not  heeded  these  words,  the 
lady  added  quickly,  "  But  whether  or  not  it 
humbled  me  in  your  eyes,  I  felt  that  it  was  due 
to  you  from  me  that  I  should  write  as  I  did. 
Though  perhaps  it  was  through  my  affection 
that  I  felt  so.  And  if  it  has  been  so,  George, 
you  will  allow  for  it.  For  though  my  troth  was 
given  back,  yet  my  heart  was  not;  and  always 
it  has  been  with  you.  O  that  ill  day,  when 
there  came  to  me  that  sad  message  from  you! 
I  was  grieved  with  it,  and  angry,  and  mortified. 
For  it  seemed  to  say  to  me,  '  Forsake  me,  like 
every  one  else,  for  I  am  sure  you  must  wish  it.' 
And  then,  when  I  thought  upon  it,  I  did  not 
know  how  to  understand  it.  I  could  not  tell 
what  to  think,  —  whether  you  distrusted  my 
being  faithful  to  you  in  adversity,  or  whether  you 
wished  to  be  just,  and  not  hold  me  to  a  com- 
panionship in  poverty,  or  whether  you  wished 
to  be  free,  and  not  have  my  weight  on  your 
arm,  while  struggling  up  the  world  again.  And 


A    TALE.  189 

then,  after  a  time,  with  thinking  it  all  over  so 
much,  I  became  ill." 

"  My  poor  Louisa  !  " 

"  And  when  I  recovered,  I  thought  then  it  was 
too  late  for  me  to  seek  an  explanation  as  to  your 
message,  through  my  dear  father.  Afterwards 
I  hoped  that  in  some  way,  by  some  occurrence, 
some  accident,  there  might  arise  some  mutual 
understanding  between  us.  And  then  my  dear 
father  fell  ill,  and  needed  all  my  care,  and  all  the 
love  I  could  show  him.  My  poor  father !  Bat 
with  minding  him  I  grew  calm  again,  and  almost 
cheerful.  .With  praying  for  him  every  night  and 
morning,  and  thinking  what  things  would  soothe 
him,  and  reading  to  him,  and  watching  him 
from  hour  to  hour,  time  went  on  with  me,  — 
days,  months,  and  years.  And  the  more  help- 
lessly dependent  on  me  my  father  became,  the 
more  strongly  there  arose  in  me  the  feeling  of 
a  daughter  to  sustain  him.  And  with  his  dear 
smile  on  me  all  day,  and  his  blessing  me  every 
night,  O,  so  tenderly  and  solemnly,  I  felt  life 
brighten  about  me,  and  keep  bright,  as  though 
with  the  yellow,  pensive  light  of  one  of  those 
days  that  summer  ends  with,  and  which  you 
used  to  love  much.  And  yet  often,  not  far  off, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  though  there  were  a  dark 


190  THORPE, 

cloud,  in  the  shadow  of  which  you  stood  alone 
and  looked  at  me.  And  sometimes  I  wondered 
that  you  never  approached  nearer.  Yet  I  was 
glad  and  grateful  that  you  did  not.  Because  my 
father  I  never  could  have  left.  Nor  could  I  ever 
have  borne  to  have  heard  you  calling  to  me." 

"  Yes,  it  has  all  been  for  the  best,  Louisa,  — 
all  for  the  best.  Till  the  last  three  or  four  years, 
I  was  very  poor  both  in  money  and  prospects. 
And  mere  poverty,  —  I  could  not  have  asked  you 
to  love  that.  And  that  was  all  I  was  then." 

"  No,  do  not  say  so,  George ;  do  not  say  so. 
For  at  least  always  you  were  yourself,  —  your 
fine,  noble, 'generous  self." 

"  Ah,  no,  Louisa,  no ! "  said  Mr.  Coke.  "  No 
companion  for  your  holy  cheerfulness  should  I 
have  been  latterly!  And  indeed  I  should  have 
been  unworthy  of  your  sweet  sympathies." 

"  O,  no !  do  not  say  so.  Though  it  has  not 
been  what  we  had  hoped,  —  our  lot  in  life." 

"  We  are  free  to  walk  hither  and  thither  on 
the  field  of  existence ;  yet  there  is  on  us  a  di- 
vine constraint,  that  is  invisible  and  unfelt,  but 
which  guides  us  in  the  direction  of  its  own  ends. 
And  are  there  not  some  positions,  into  which  we 
feel  sure  that  we  have  been  divinely  brought  ? 
Sternly  we  may  have  been  guided  into  them, 


A    TALE.  191 

but  if  divinely  too,  then  cannot  we  wait  in  them, 
rest  in  them,  patiently,  expectantly,  our  hands 
clasped,  and  our  eyes  on  God?" 

"  So  right-minded,  so  pious,  you  have  always 
been,  George.  It  was  not  for  any  fault,  for 
any  error  in  you,  that  our  two  lives  have  been 
so  " 

"  Hush,  Louisa,  hush !  It  is  not  of  me  you 
should  speak  so.  For  I  have  known  what  it 
was  to  turn  from  God  and  despair.  Yes,  and 
I  have  looked  at  God,  and  held  as  nothing  — 
a  risk  for  chance,  a  tiresome  trouble  —  this  gift 
of  his,  —  this  divine  gift  of  life." 

"  And  your  despair,  I  have  been  some  cause 
of  it.  O,  if  only  I  had " 

"  Your  companionship  would  have  been  too 
great  a  happiness  for  mef  with  God  looking  on, 
—  unmerited  happiness,  which  almost  I  might 
have  been  afraid  of  enjoying  in  his  eye,  —  the 
Holy  One.  Too  great  a  good  for  me,  —  yes, 
indeed,  Louisa,  you  would  have  been  too  good 
for  me,  as  you  remember  I  always  used  to  say 
you  would." 

"  But  always  I  felt  it  could  not  be  so,  because 
myself  I  was  not  worthy  of  the  sunshine  of  your 
eye ;  and  because  I  was  not  of  a  spirit  great 
enough  to  give  you  back  thoughts  for  your  great 


192  THORPE, 

thoughts,  and  words  that  should  be  a  fair  ex- 
change for  your  noble,  stirring,  joyous  words.  Ah, 
if  only  it  had  happened  that  your  betrothed  had 
been  some  braver,  better  woman  than  myself, 
what  is  there  you  might  not  have  become !  — 
a  prince  among  merchants,  —  a  statesman  with 
millions  to  admire  and  love  and  honor  you.  All 
this  you  might  have  been,  and  would  have  been, 
but  for  me.  Very  useful  you  have  been  and 
very  widely;  but  I  know  well  that  you  would 
have  been  known  of,  all  over  the  world,  but  for 
my  fault,  my  failing  you  in  your  time  of  trouble, 
and  so  weakening  your  courage.  But  indeed, 
indeed,  at  that  time,  miserably  bewildered,  I  did 
not  know  what  to  think.  But  now  I  know  what 
I  ought  to  have  done.  But  I  did  not  do  it. 
And  it  was  because  my  heart  was  not  worthy 
of  you." 

"  If  it  is  mine  still,  Louisa,  do  not  speak  so 
of  it.  And  it  is  mine,  I  know,  and  always  has 
been." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lady,  "  always  it  has  been. 
And  so  it  was  all  the  worse  in  me  that  I  did 
not  see  what  I  ought  to  have  done  on  receiving 
.  the  news  of  your  misfortune,  and  the  message 
by  my  father  absolving  me  from  my  engagement. 
And  then,  too,  often  and  often  I  have  sat  still  in 


A    TALE.  193 

an  evening,  and  been  pleased  with  fancying,  that, 
notwithstanding  our  broken  engagement,  still  you 
were  surely  mine,  —  moving'  about  in  the  world, 
and  standing  on  some  of  its  high  places,  and 
thinking  of  me  all  the  while.  Indeed,  George, 
it  was  wrong  in  me  to  please  myself  with  be- 
lieving that  you  were  mine,  and  yet  not  to  have 
let  you  know  that  I  held  it  nothing,  —  that  mes- 
sage from  you,  setting  me  free  from  our  engage- 
ment." 

"  Hush !  Do  not  accuse  yourself  so.  As  to 
our  present  positions,  do  not  let  me  hear  from 
you  one  word  of  self-accusation.  I  should  not 
be  worthy  to  listen  to  it,  even  were  it  true,  which 
it  is  not.  You  will  not  think  that,  for  you  are 
so  good,  and  you  will  not  believe  it;  yet  it  is 
so.  And  in  what  separates  us  now,  it  is  I  that 
am  to  blame,  and  more  sadly  than  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  Your  pride,  —  that  is  what  you  are  thinking 
of.  For,  George,  you  are  a  very  proud  man, 
and  you  always  were,  —  proud  of  your  charac- 
ter, which  you  ought  not  to  be,  —  and  proud  of 
holding  yourself  independent  of  every  body,  which 
is  a  thing  you  ought  not  to  wish  to  do.  You 
will  pardon  my  speaking  so,  George,  will  you 
not?" 

13 


194 


THORPE 


"  Say  on,  Louisa.  You  are  right,  and  you  can 
say  nothing  but  what  is  right.  I  have  been  proud, 
very  proud,  wickedly  "proud." 

"  No,  not  so,  not  wickedly,  not  blamably." 
Here  the  lady  blushed  all  up  her  face,  and  under 
her  ringlets  of  hair.  "  But,  George,  why  should 
that  pride  of  yours  hinder  what  I  do  believe 
would  be  your  happiness?  And  why  should  it 
blight  my  life  ?  You  have  my  heart.  O,  do 
not  hold  it  cruelly,  and  have  it  wither  with  your 
pride." 

"  I,  Louisa,  I !     Never ! " 

"  O,  if  only  you  knew,  in  writing  that  letter, 
how  I  struggled  with  maidenly  modesty ! " 

"  I  do  know  it.  In  my  mind's  eye  I  have 
seen  you  writing  it.  I  have  seen  it  all,  —  the 
blush  that  came  and  went  upon  your  face,  even 
when  you  were  alone,  —  resolution  in  your  mind, 
wavering  with  modesty,  but  sustained  by  wom- 
anly generosity,  —  and  affection  from  long  years, 
rolling  in  upon  you  in  a  flood  of  pure,  urgent 
emotion." 

"  Why,  then,  George,  why  may  we  not  hope,  — 
have  those  dear  sweet  hopes  of  long  ago  re- 
vive? But  I  know  how  you  are  thinking  that 
you  are  not  now  what  you  were  once.  But  be- 
lieve me,  that  what  a  true  woman  needs  most 


A    TALE.  195 

in  the  object  of  her  affections  is  not  comfort  for 
herself,  but  a  something  for  her  to  comfort,  — 
not  an  arm  that  can  surround  her  with  pleas- 
ures, but  a  name  she  can  honor,  and  an  eye 
she  can  look  to,  for  the  loving  way  of  its  watch- 
ing her.  Something  to  think  of,  to  toil  for,  to 
fear  for,  to  suffer  for,  —  something  she  might 
proudly  die  for,  —  this  is  what  a  woman  needs 
more  truly  than  a  servant  to  attend  her,  or  a 
luxurious  home  to  dwell  in."  • 

Here  over  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Coke  there 
went  an  expression  of  anguish.  And  he  bowed 
his  face  on  his  hands.  The  lady,  while  speak- 
ing, had  turned  her  eyes  from  him,  and  so  she 
had  not  noticed  his  agony.  And  she  continued. 
"  Almost  now  I  am  rich.  And  in  some  warm 
climate,  with  me  about  you  always,  to  watch, 
and  tend,  and  love  you,  soon  you  would  recover 
your  health,  and  return  again  to  England,  and 
be  what  you  ought  to  be, — the  admiration  of 
the  people,  and  mine,  my  own,  all  the  while. 
For  with  rest,  and  care,  and  a  visit  to  a  warm- 
er climate,  you  would  recover  quite  certainly. 
So  Doctor  Blinkhorn  says." 

"  He ! "  said  Mr.  Coke,  in  a  tone  strangely  ex- 
pressive of  pain  and  anger  and  tenderness.  "  And 
he  has  caused  you  this  further  trial,  my  poor, 


196  THORPE, 

dear  Louisa !  Blinkhorn  with  his  ignorance ! 
O,  indeed,  Louisa,  it  is  not  as  he  tells  you! 
God's  will  be  done !  And  for  me  that  will  is 
my  death.  I  must  indeed  die  soon ;  so  my 
London  physician  tells  me.  Your  love  sweet- 
ens for  me  my  life  at  the  end.  But  it  cannot 
do  more.  But  see.  There  is  Mrs.  Gentle  open- 
ing the  gate,  and  she  is  coming  to  remind  me 
that  it  is  time  I  should  go  into  the  house.  I 
will  go  *and  meet  her.  And,  Louisa,  do  you 
come  after  me." 


A    TALE.  197 


XXV. 

MR.  COKE  had  resolved  to  retire  from  business, 
and  desired  to  have  his  nephew  Percy  succeed  to 
him.  And  Percy  had  told  him  of  his  history  for 
five  years  previous,  and  of  his  purposes  and  hopes 
as  to  the  future. 

"  And  you  think  they  are  new,  —  your  posi- 
tions in  theology,"  said  Mr.  Coke.  "  But  I  must 
tell  you  that  I  do  not  think  they  are,  even  here 
in  England.  I  think  you  would  find  them  known 
to  our  minister  here,  if  .you  were  to  talk  with 
him." 

"  I  must  confess,  sir,  that  I  have  been  sur- 
prised at  some  thoughts  I  have  heard  him  ex- 
press." 

"  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  surprise.  For  al- 
most there  is  a  whole  literature  in  existence, 
which  yet  has  never  been  heard  at  Oxford.  And 
even  if  you  do  not  know  it,  you  can  easily  sup- 


198  THORPE, 

pose  it.  For  you,  who  have  refused  to  subscribe 
the  Thirty-Nine  Articles,  and  who  have  thereby 
pnlled  to  the  door  in  jour  own  face,  —  the  door 
by  which  Oxford  lets  a  man  out  on  the  field  of 
public  life,  —  even  with  you  the  first  impulse 
on  taking  up  a  book  is  to  ascertain,  if  you  can, 
whether  or  not  the  author  is  of  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge. I  tell  you,  that  there  are  men  who  have 
been  educated  in  theology,  as  a  science,  and  who 
have  traversed  in  all  freedom  the  wide  field  of 
religious  speculation,  and  explored  the  deep  mines 
of  patristical  learning,  and  who  have  built  them- 
selves up  in  lofty  convictions  of  their  own.  And 
of  the  very  existence  of  these  men  there  is  no 
knowledge  at  Oxford.  And  so  much  the  worse 
for  Oxford !  And  you  yourself  have  studied  for 
years  in  Oxford,  and  journeyed  from  one  foreign 
university  to  another,  and  meditated  in  seclusion, 
year  after  year,  only  to.  arrive  at  last  at  positions 
which  are  very  similar  to  the  principles  which 
our  friend  has  held  for  several  years.  What  be- 
wilderment and  trouble  you  would  have  been 
saved  by  an  hour's  talk  four  years  ago !  Only 
I  suppose,  even  four  years  ago,  your  Oxford  van- 
ity would  not  have  endured  a  Presbyterian  min- 
ister. You  remember  the  last  time  you  called 
on  me.  You  opened  a  book  which  lay  on  the 


A    TALE.  199 

table,  and  which  I  had  just  had  handsomely 
bound.  And  when  you  saw  it  was  the  Life  of 
George  Washington,  you  shut  it  suddenly,  and 
muttered  something  about  a  demagogue.  But 
whether  the  epithet  was  meant  for  me  or  Wash- 
ington, or  both,  I  did  not  know." 

"  I  remember  the  silly  action.  But  I  did  not 
think  you  had  heard  me.  And  now,  if  it  is  not 
too  late,  sir,  I  ask  your  forgiveness  for  my  folly." 

"  Your  folly,  —  yours !  It  was  not  yours,  Percy, 
but  your  cap's,  —  your  Oxford  cap's!  For  there 
are  certain  important  subjects  on  which  a  man 
thinks,  one  way  or  another,  according  as  he  wears 
the  crown  of  a  monarch,  the  coronet  of  a  peer,  a 
student's  cap  tufted  or  a  commoner's,  the  shovel- 
hat  of  a  vicar,  the  fur  cap  of  a  grenadier,  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  of  a  Friend,  or  the  cheap  felt 
of  a  peasant.  It  is  so  with  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand.  But  you 
yourself  are  the  one  man  in  a  thousand.  And 
now  I  have  forgiven  you,  have  not  I  ?  And  so 
then,  Percy,  you  persist  in  declining  to  succeed 
me  in  business  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  not  fit  for  the  place,  nor  would 
it  suit  me." 

"  And  why  not  ?  Will  you  tell  me  why  you 
cannot  deal  in  calicoes  and  live,  instead  of  starv- 


200  THORPE, 

ing  as  an  usher  in  a  school,  with  the  hope  some 
time  of  starving  to  death,  as  a  man  of  genius? 
Your  reasons  now,  —  come,  tell  me.  You  have 
none?  Then  what  have  you?" 

"  Feelings,  persuasions  from  within,  aspirations, 
a  sense  of  " 

"  Sense  ?     Nonsense." 

"  Did  not  I  tell  you,  uncle,  that  I  had  nothing 
to  answer  which  you  would  accept  as  a  reason  ?  " 

"  Percy,  you  are  twenty-eight  years  of  age. 
And  yet,  because  you  are  an  honest  student,  you 
can  have  no  prospect  of  success  in  the  world. 
All  over  the  kingdom,  in  every  church,  the  pulpit- 
door  is  shut  against  you,  and  so  is  the  door  of 
every  grammar-school  in  which  you  might  hope 
to  be  a  master.  However,  you  are  a  man  not 
only  of  Latin  and  Greek,  but  also  of  the  com- 
mercial languages,  French,  German,  and  Dutch, 

—  you  are  a  man  of  perseverance  and  industry, — 
and   address   and   character,  —  a   man   of  twenty 
times  as  much  mathematics  as  will  keep  a  leger, 

—  and   with    a   memory   that  will  hold    any  day 
all  the  prices,  the  news,  and  the  sales  of  the  Ex- 
change, —  a  man    whom   any   body   would  trust 
for  your  looks!     And  you  will  not  go  into  busi- 
ness !     I  tell   you,  that  in  ten   years  you  would 
make  for  yourself  a  competent  fortune.     And  then 


A    TALE.  201 

with  that  you  migh  retire  from  business,  and  be 
a  student  without  being  other  than  a  sensible- 
man." 

"  But  for  study  I  should  then  have  lost  all 
aptitude  and  taste.  And  also  then  I  should  have 
forgotten  a  thousand  and  ten  thousand  things 
with  which  I  am  now  familiar,  —  facts,  distinc- 
tions, characters  of  books,  veins  of  feeling,  prin- 
ciples of  science,  criticism,  and  philosophy,  ways 
of  expression,  ancient  languages " 

"  And  so  in  order  to  retain  all  these  things  in 
your  mind  you  are  to  forego,  not  only  the  cer- 
tainty of  a  fortune,  but  even  perhaps  of  a  living. 
And  for  that  who  will  thank  you?  Nobody! 
Who  will  think  you  a  fool?  Every  body.  And 
are  you  prepared  for  that?" 

"  I  hope  to  be  found  so,  if  it  is  necessary." 

"  As  a  writer,  you  say  yourself  that  you  do 
not  ever  expect  to  be  popular,  or  well  paid." 

"  Uncle  George,  I  would  yield  to  your  wish  at 
once,  if  it  were  simply  a  question,  whether  I 
should  get  rich  by  such  faculties  as  make  an 
author  popular,  or  by  such  qualifications  as  make 
a  merchant  successful." 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  now  that  there  is 
an  opportunity  open  to  us,  I  think  I  can  hear 
them  calling  to  us,  from  their  graves  in  Drayton 


202  THORPE, 

church,  —  our  forefathers,  —  not  to  fail  of  renew- 
ing for  them  that  name  which  is  fading  fast, 
very  fast.  It  is  all  now  dwindled  down  to  the 
few  acres  that  are  entailed,  —  the  old  estate.  I 
did  hope,  in  a  few  years,  that  I  might  myself 
have  been  able  to  buy  back  some  portion  of  what 
was  once  our  land,  and  particularly  the  fields 
called  Sir  Humphrey's  Walk.  I  wish  now  that 
you  would  do  what  I  cannot.  Of  mere  prefer- 
ence as  to  your  manner  of  life,  I  think  you  might 
be  willing  to  forego  something,  merely  for  the 
satisfaction  of  raising  again  the  old  name  in  the 
old  place.  And  you,  Percy,  surely  ought  to  feel 
something  of  this,  for  you  are  both  the  youngest 
member  of  the  family  and  also  the  head  of  it." 

For  a  few  seconds  the  young  man  was  silent, 
and  then  he  said,  "  The  old  name !  It  began 
with  a  new  man;  and  if  it  is  ever  to  be  renewed 
again,  it  must  be  out  of  a  new  spirit.  Once,  for 
a  name  to  be  respectable,  it  was  necessary  it 
should  be  that  of  an  estate,  —  the  name  of  a 
man  and  his  lands.  But  it  is  hardly  so  now; 
and  soon  it  will  be  so  no  longer.  Once,  as 
perpetuity  for  a  name,  there  was  needed  what 
only  money  can  buy,  —  stone  piled  on  stone. 
But  now  a  name  is  not  land  lying  wide  and 
senseless  under  the  shining  sun  and  the  midnight 


A    TALE.  203 

dark ;  nor  is  it  a  monument  pointing  with  a  cold 
finger  up  among  the  mists,  and  toward  the  clouds. 
But  now  a  name  is  winged,  electric ;  and  it  flash- 
es from  city  to  city,  and  to  the  ends  of  the  world. 
And  the  honor  of  it  is  by  the  firesides  at  which 
it  comes  up.  And  the  duration  of  it  is  according 
to  the  strength  of  the  love  that  is  in  it." 

"Perhaps,  —  perhaps  so." 

"  Uncle,  there  is  no  one  knows  it  better  than 
you  do,  or  feels  it  more." 

"  You  think,  Percy,  I  care  little  for  the  old  an- 
cestral spot.  You  are  mistaken.  True,  I  have 
never  been  at  it  for  more  than  twenty  years,  and 
never  hardly  spoken  of  it;  but  it  has  been  for 
grief,  and  shame,  and  mortification,  not  for  in- 
difference. And  now,  Percy,  you  wish  to  be  a 
student  for  life.  You  hope  to  be  a  man  of  new, 
high  thought.  Suppose  the  best ;  and  suppose 
you  are.  Then  you  will  be  a  man  of  many  ene- 
mies and  no  friends.  You  will  open  ways  of 
thought.  But  at  the  ends  of  them  other  men 
will  build  monuments  inscribed  with  their  own 
names.  And  when  you  have  died,  you  will  be 
a  good  subject  for  a  memoir." 

"  But  fire  from  heaven " 

"  Draw  fire  from  heaven,  and  with  it  light  a 
lamp  to  guide  your  fellow-creatures,  in  their  hu- 


204  THORPE, 

man  darkness!  Have  not  they  got  vicars,  and 
rectors,  and  deans,  and  prebendaries,  and  bishops 
to  direct  them?  Our  Manchester  merchants  are 
the  most  likely  men  in  all  England  for  your  pur- 
pose. Now  among  them  it  shall  be  understood 
that  you  are  a  man  of  a  large,  rare  intellect  by 
nature,  and  that  by  long  years  of  faithful  study 
you  are  a  man  still  rarer.  Do  you  think  you 
could  get  fifty  of  them  to  attend  to  you,  either 
'by  listening  or  reading?  I  tell  you  that  you 
could  not  obtain  five.  Not  five!  For  one  man 
yields  himself  credulously  to  a  domineering  cler- 
gyman; and  another  mistakes  in  a  preacher  flex- 
ibility of  tongue  for  quickness  of  thought,  and 
depth  of  voice  for  depth  of  mind.  And  another 
indignant  man  would  exclaim,  '  Teach  me !  who 
are  you  ?  where  is  your  money  ? '  Fancy  your- 
self now  on  the  Exchange,  among  the  merchants, 
your  book  in  your  hand.  And  what  do  you  see  ? 
You  see  your  prospects  in  life ;  and  they  are 
nothing." 

"  Hardly,  sir,  so  ought  one  " 

"  You  will  publish  your  book,  —  the  work  of 
years,  —  thoughts  which  you  have  arrived  at 
through  agonies  of  belief  and  unbelief,  through 
seasons  of  intense  thought  and  exhausted  strength, 
and  all  throughout  by  the  help  of  rare  genius. 


A    TALE.  205 

And  on  a  few  hundred  copies  of  your  volume 
you  will  obtain  perhaps  sixpence  for  profit,  re- 
ward, a  livirig.  And  twenty  times  as  much,  per- 
haps, will  be  paid  by  every  one  of  your  readers 
to  see  a  dancer  on  the  stage,  to  hear  an  opera, 
to  see  the  lady  we  call  the  Queen,  to  have  a  seat 
at  a  public  dinner  given  to  some  general,  or  mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  or  president  of  a  company." 

"  But  by  somebody,"  said  Percy,  "  it  has  got 
to  be  done,  —  the  highest  work  of  the  world." 

"  But  not  therefore  by  you.  Write  biographies, 
write  romances,  write  a  book  on  cookery,  com- 
pile an  arithmetic.  But  do  not  do  what  peo- 
ple do  not  want.  Genius  entering  into  the  tem- 
ple of  theology  to  meditate,  —  or  ascending  the 
heights  of  science  and  growing  radiant  in  the 
face  from  talking  with  the  Divine,  —  or  sitting 
still  to  listen  to  the  harmony  in  which  blend  to- 
gether the  music  of  its  own  thoughts  and  sweet 
influences  from  on  high  !  For  a  man's  happi- 
ness there  is  commonly  no  greater  mistake  than 
this,  —  nothing  more  woful." 

"  But,  sir,  where  would  be,  what  would  be,  the 
souls  of  men,  but  for  the  self-sacrifice  of  genius, 
—  the  courage  of  Milton  in  singing  of  Paradise 
Lost,  careless  even  of  the  ten  pounds  which  he 
did  get  for  the  poem." 


206  THORPE, 

"Sacrifice  of  yourself!  Call  your  project  by 
that  name,  and  I  shall  be  better  satisfied.  How- 
ever, we  will  talk  of  this  subject  again.  But  I 
do  wish  you  to  understand  distinctly  what  it  is 
that  you  are  doing.  You  are  rejecting  a  fortune 
for  the  sake  of  study  and  poverty  and  fame  and 
usefulness,  —  study  and  poverty  during  your  life, 
and  fame  and  usefulness  after  your  death." 

"  And  is  that  nothing  ?  And  would  not  it  be 
much,  even  though  in  my  lifetime  only  a  thou- 
sand souls  should  have  me  for  their  benefactor?" 

"  Have  you  for  their  benefactor !  But  then 
they  will  not  hold  you  so.  Out  into  the  world 
you  will  go,  and  before  swine,  and  men,  and 
dogs,  you  will  throw  down  your  pearls  of  holi- 
ness. And  then  almost  it  will  be  well  for  you 
if  you  are  not  noticed,  for  then  at  least  you  will 
not  be  abused  nor  persecuted.  But  the  dogs 
and  swine,  and  indeed  most  men,  will  walk 
among  your  pearls  and  never  heed  them.  Now 
and  then  a  pious  man  will  find  one,  and  he  will 
call  it,  perhaps,  the  beauty  of  holiness.  But  on 
account  of  the  casual  way  by  which  he  becomes 
possessed  of  it,  he  will  never  think  of  you  as 
the  giver  of  it." 

"  But  yet  to  have  men  indebted  to  one  spirit- 
ually   " 


A    TALE.  207 

"  Will  not  help  you  to  live  bodily.  And  cer- 
tainly you  have  got  to  live,  either  in  the  poor- 
house  or  out  of  it.  .O,  you  will  have  men  owe 
you  every  thing,  and  be  indebted  to  you  infinite- 
ly. And  shall  I  tell  you  how  much  it  amounts 
to,  an  infinite  debt?  Boundless  love,  and  not 
one  farthing.  No,  nor  even  the  slightest  ser- 
vice, nor  the  least  compliance  with  you  in  any 
plari  of  your  proposing.  For,  Percy,  I  know  well 
what  I  am  speaking  about.  For  I  have  had 
the  public  indebted  to  me  boundlessly." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  uncle  began 
to  talk  of  his  own  past  life,  —  his  actions,  the 
motives  to  them,  and  how  his  soul  had  been 
acted  on  by  untoward  circumstances.  And  as 
in  narrative  the  stream  of  his  uncle's  life  flowed 
past  him,  Percy  Coke  saw  in  it  his  own  likeness, 
sometimes  distinctly,  like  an  image  deep  down 
in  the  water,  but  oftenest  like  a  momentary 
reflection  lost  in  ripples  and  eddies.  But  any- 
where, with  attention,  he  could  perceive  his  own 
image  appear  for  an  instant.  And  he  sickened  at 
the  sight  of  its  coming  and  going  so  painfully ; 
yet  he  felt  that  he  was  growing  wiser  with  it 

In  conclusion,  Mr.  Coke  said,  "  In  choosing  a 
way  of  life,  a  man  ought  to  think,  not  only  of  the 
crown  which  he  hopes  to  attain,  but  also  of  the 


,  THORPE, 

thorns  he  must  walk  on.  And  if  he  cannot  en- 
dure the  thorns  even  to  look  at,  then  is  it  very 
certain  that  never  will  he  pass  through  them  to 
reach  the  crown,  however  pleasantly  for  a  time 
his  eyes  may  be  dazzled  with  it.  And,  Percy, 
how  it  happens  I  do  not  know,  but  I  have  noticed 
it  as  a  fact,  that  it  is  destructive  of  character, 
and  indeed  peculiarly  pernicious,  for  a  man  to 
act  on  motives  that  prove  to  be  too  high  for  him, 
—  to  do  a  generous  action  and  repent  of  it,  — 
of  his  own  choice  and  for  the  sake  of  religion  to 
take  up  a  cross  to  carry,  and  after  a  time  to  wish 
he  could  fairly  drop  it." 

"  My  dear  uncle  George,  you  are  so  wise  and 
good."  .  • 

"  All  I  wish,  Percy,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  is  to  be 
sure  that  you  understand  what  it  is  that  you  are 
doing  in  the  decision  you  are  now  making.  -You 
can  yet  be  a  merchant.  You  are  not  yet  too  old 
to  disjoin  yourself  from  genius.  But  soon  you 
will  be.  And  it  will  possess  you  like  a  spirit. 
It  will  disable  you  from  working  for  money  or 
bread,  or  any  other  merely  earthly  motive.  It 
will  hold  you  to  the  service  of  high  thought,  — 
a  service  for  which  you  will  be  laughed  at,  as 
moonstruck,  by  nearly  every  body,  by  rich  men 
and  poor  men,  merchants  and  peasants." 


A    TALE.  209 

"  That  I  can  endure,  I  think.  For  already  I 
have  drawn  upon  myself  all  the  pity  and  scorn 
possible,  by  being  too  honest  to  sign  what  I  did 
not  wholly  believe,  —  the  Thirty-nine  Articles. 
Because  by  that  scruple  I  was  debarred  of  my 
degree,  and  of  almost  every  successful  entrance 
into  life.  Uncle,  I  know  well  that  so  often,  in 
so  many  directions  in  this  world,  especially  for 
its  own  profit,  genius  is  powerless,  even  although 
it  be  free  of  the  heavens,  and  of  the  regions 
whence  flow  down  among  men  thoughts  from 
eternal  fountains." 

"  It  is  light  and  heat  for  the  whole  world,  and 
yet  it  will  hardly  kindle  a  fire  in  a  kitchen." 

"  A  faculty,  a  possession,  that  is  of  use  not  at 
all  in  furnishing  a  house,  but  only  in  brightening 
it ;  and  which  avails  a  man  very  little  in  earning 
the  means  of  life,  but  only  perhaps  in  making 
common  bread  sometimes  taste  like  '  angels'  food.' 
Such  is  genius,  I  suppose." 

"  And  now  I  think  we  understand  one  an- 
other," said  Mr.  Coke.  "  If  only  you  do  thor- 
oughly understand  its  nature,  then  I  would  not 
dissuade  you  from  your  purpose  in  regard  to  a 
studious,  literary  life.  For  if  a  man  might  hope 
at  last  to  speak  but  one  enduring  word  of  beauty 
or  truth,  then  I  think,  if  necessary,  that  he  might 

14 


210  THORPE, 

well  be  like  the  Baptist,  and  dwell  apart  from 
the  sweet,  lively  scenes  of  life,  and  feed  on  coarse 
and  scanty  fare,  and  have  no  loving  eye  to  watch 
him,  and  in  his  spot  on  the  desert  meditate 
through  all  the  years  of  his  manhood,  and  till 
old  age." 


A    TALE.  211 


XXVI. 

NIGHT,  night!  O,  there  is  something  in  us 
that  is  divine,  and  of  which  night  is  the  high 
season!  In  the  day  we  are  surrounded  with 
objects  for  the  eye,  but  at  night  with  the  infi- 
nite, for  the  soul  to  feel  and  tremble  at.  And 
more  so  than  in  the  bright  day,  out  in  the  dark 
night  we  are  souls  to  one  another. 

It  was  midnight,  and  at  the  window  of  his 
study  the  minister  looked  out  into  the  night. 
And  there  came  into  his  mind  how,  ages  ago, 
a  father  of  the  Church  had  said,  that  it  is  the 
duty  of  spiritual  doctors  to  rise  up  often  by 
night,  and  think  of  the  state  of  the  Church,  so 
as  to  discover  how  to  correct  things  which  have 
been  defiled  by  sin.  And  then  came  upon  his 
soul  from  the  night  the  feeling  of  it,  —  myste- 
ry, awe,  wonder,  and  fear,  —  that  panic  sen- 
sation with  which  every  heart  has  some  time 


212  THORPE 


throbbed.  And  he  said  to  himself,  "  In  the  dark 
how  close  about  us  they  feel,  —  the  things  of 
the  spirit!  By  night  it  comes  in  upon  the  soul 
with  such  persuasion,  —  the  Spirit  of  God;  and 
they  are  to  be  heard  speaking  so  tenderly,  —  the 
voices  of  departed  souls.  And  in  the  dark,  wise 
words  of  ages  ago  come  up  into  our  minds  with 
a  freshness  like  that  of  living  voices."  And  then 
he  remembered  how  for  righteous  men  Clement 
called  the  night  a  veil  of  sweetness ;  and  how 
Cardinal  Bona  had  exclaimed,  "  O  the  peculiar 
prerogative  of  the  night-time !  O  the  holy  hours 
of  the  dark,  more  splendid  than  any  light ! " 
Also  he  said  over  to  himself  the  words  of  St. 
John  of  the  Cross.  And  as  he  repeated  them, 
he  wondered  whether  he  had  himself  then  come 
through  all  the  dark  passages.  "  The  perfect 
have  to  pass  through  the  night  of  the  senses, 
the  night  of  the  spirit,  the  night  of  the  memory, 
and  the  night  of  the  will ;  which  four  nights 
represent  the  four  kinds  of  mortification  which 
they  must  endure." 

And  as  he  looked  in  the  direction  of  the 
town,  he  heard  the  church  clock  strike  twelve, 
and  the  chimes  play  the  tune  of  Old  Hundred. 
And  then  he  said  over  to  himself,  in  the  terse 
Latin  of  Columban,  these  sentiments  of  long 


A    TALE.  213 

ago.  "  O  life!  how  many  have  been  deceived 
by  you !  Nothing  hardly  in  the  passing,  and 
only  a  shadow  to  remember!  Day  after  day 
you  fly,  and  day  after  day  you  are  with  us 
again.  By  coming,  you  pass  away ;  and  then 
having  passed  away,  you  are  round  upon  us  again. 
To  look  to,  you  seem  so  real ;  but  to  look  back 
on,  you  are  so  merely  fallacious !  And  there- 
fore, O  mortal  life !  fugitive  as  a  bird,  uncer- 
tain as  a  cloud,  unsubstantial  as  a  shadow,  you 
are  nothing,  unless  perhaps  some  semblance  of 
what  may  prove  to  be  a  way." 

And  then  he  thought  how  serious  a  thing  it 
was  to  be  a  minister,  —  in  any  way  to  have 
souls  dependent  on  him  for  guidance  past  the 
broad  road  and  along  the  narrow  way  to  Me 
eternal, —  to  be  a  theologian,  and  to  have  peo- 
ple rely  upon  his  judgment  on  great,  awful  mat- 
ters of  the  spirit,  —  to  be  a  pastor,  and  to  have 
men  and  women  die  in  the  faith  of  its  being 
really  Christian,  the  doctrine  of  his  teaching. 
And  he  said,  "  This  people  dwell  about  me  here. 
And  to  some  extent,  certainly,  I  am  the  eye 
which  they  see  by,  —  the  conscience  they  judge 
by,  —  the  prayer  by  the  earnestness  of  which 
their  hearts  express  themselves,  —  and  the  wis- 
dom on  which  they  rely  for  being  right.  Do 


214 


THORPE, 


I  feel  this  as  I  ought,  —  as  seriously  as  I  ought  ? 
Do  I  study,  and  meditate,  and  pray  as  I  ought, 
sanctifying  myself  for  their  sakes  ?  " 

Just  then,  swift,  silent,  and  beautiful,  there 
streamed  down  the  sky  a  falling  star.  And  the 
minister  said,  "  Myself,  O,  not  myself,  I  hope,  I 
trust ! " 

That  night  he  had  a  dream.  Behind  him 
there  was  a  wood,  inside  which  there  was  a  sound 
of  falling  water.  And  before  him  the  ground 
stretched  away  to  a  slope,  along  the  bottom  of 
which  ran  a  brook.  About  him  were  flowers, 
some  standing  up  like  the  tall  lily,  and  some  just 
to  be  seen  at  his  feet  creeping  in  the  grass.  Close 
beside  him  was  a  thick  tree,  that  was  like  a  hil- 
lock of  gorgeous  blossoms,  from  the  ground  to 
the  top  of  it.  And  overhead  was  a  sky  of  the 
softest,  deepest  blue.  Amid  all  this  beauty  he 
stood  entranced.  But  a  voice  cried,  "  Out  of  the 
heart  are  the  issues  of  life."  And  then  through 
his  soul  there  flashed  conviction,  —  a  sense  of 
pain,  and  shame,  and  sin. 

About  him  there  appeared  objects  which  he 
felt  had  in  them  a  something  of  his  own  nature. 
Embodied  in  emblematic  forms,  there  were  visi- 
ble about  him  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  his 
own  sinful  heart,  —  things  mournful  and  hateful, 


A    TALE.  215 

and  ludicrous  and  strange,  —  a  serpent  on  the 
ground,  coiled  up  as  though  for  a  spring,  —  the 
fierce  head  of  a  dog  barking  and  snapping  from 
side  to  side,  —  a  goose,  his  head  aloft,  hissing  in 
the  air,  and  his  feet  set  in  the  mud,  —  thick  mists 
hanging  low  on  the  ground,  and  blighting  all 
things  beautiful  beneath,  —  a  phantom  man,  with 
his  face  turned  upwards  for  prayer,  and  his  hands 
busy  with  a  purse,  —  on  the  grass,  moving  about, 
a  smiling  human  face,  with  a  tail  and  a  sting 
behind,  —  and  in  the  air,  floating  about,  shapeless 
objects  that  changed  incessantly  in  loathsome- 
ness from  one  vague  form  to  another.  From 
beneath,  it  was  as  though  the  firm  ground  had 
grown  hollow.  And  from  the  wood  behind 
him  continually  there  blew  out  upon  him  cold 
blasts,  with  which  his  courage  quailed  in  him 
and  sank. 

He  strove  to  look  abroad,  but  he  could  not; 
and  up  on  high,  to  heaven,  but  he  could  not. 
For  bis  eyes  were  drawn  irresistibly  to  the  hate- 
ful things  about  him.  And  it  felt  as  though  from 
within  him  his  soul  were  longing  and  bending 
towards  every  loathsome  object  that  he  saw. 

And  he  threw  himself  down,  his  forehead  to 
the  ground.  And  he  cried,  "  God  deliver  me  !  be- 
cause I  cannot  even  see  for  my  sins;  and  even 


216  THORPE, 

my  mind  is  defiled."  And  his  whole  soul  flowed 
forth  in  prayer,  fervent,  effective.  And  he  prayed, 
"  Kill  me,  O  God,  if  thou  wilt.  But  leave  me 
not  to  grow  hateful  with  these  hateful  things 
about."  So  did  he  yield  himself  to  God,  and  all 
his  powers  as  instruments  of  righteousness  to 
God.  Then  down  from  the  sky  a  voice  cried, 
"  Sin  shall  no  more  have  dominion  over  you." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  looked  around.  And 
he  saw  that  it  was  become  more  beautiful  than 
before,  —  the  scene  about  him.  And  round  him, 
on  the  ground,  lay  his  late  terrors  lifeless.  And 
it  seemed  as  though  they  were  melting  and  van- 
ishing, —  those  phantom  forms  of  sin  ;  and  as 
though  from  beneath  them  the  flowers  were  spring- 
ing up,  sweeter  to  smell,  and  of  richer  colors. 
And  while  he  was  wondering  at  this,  his  dream 
ceased.  And,  half  asleep  and  half  awake,  he  said 
to  himself,  what  George  Herbert  had  said  before, 
"  So  that  the  parson  having  studied  all  his  lusts 
and  affections  within,  and  the  whole  army  of 
temptations  without^  hath  ever  so  many  sermons 
ready  penned  as  he  hath  victories." 


A    TALE.  217 


XXVII. 

MARTIN  MAY  had  been  at  Manchester  for  two 
or  three  days  during,  the  first  week  in  October. 
He  returned  to  the  Dell,  about  the  middle  of  the 
day,  on  Friday.  With  the  exception  of  one  old 
woman,  he  found  all  the  inmates  of  the  house 
were  out.  And  from  her  all  he  learned  about 
them  was,  that  they  were  gone  into  the  town. 
In  the  afternoon  he  thought  he  would  himself 
go  and  call  at  the  Parsonage. 

It  had  been  a  fine  autumnal  day,  and  all  the 
morning,  along  the  roads  and  over  the  fields, 
there  had  been  coming  to  Thorpe  men  and 
women,  mostly  young  and  wearing  their  Sunday 
clothes,  and  looking  clean,  and  merry,  and  health- 
ful. And  in  regard  to  the  men  it  might  have 
been  noticed  that  in  their  hats  they  wore  what 
might  have  been  correctly  understood  to  have 
been  emblematic  of  their  occupations,  —  a  piece 


218 


THORPE, 


of  whipcord,  or  some  cow-hair,  or  a  bit  of  sponge, 
or  some  flowers,  or  a  little  wool. 

As   soon   as    Martin    May  got   on  to  the  high- 
road,   he  saw  that   there  was    a   great  confluence 
of  people  towards  one  end  of  the  town.     He  met 
a  young  man,  looking  like  a  farmer,  and  he  asked 
him  what  it   meant,  —  this  great   assemblage  of 
strangers    at   such  a  quiet  spot.     The  farmer   an- 
swered him,  "  O,  it  is  the  hiring." 
"  The  hiring !     What  is  that  ?  " 
"  Statutes  is  what  we  call  it  in   Norfolk." 
"  Statutes !     I  do  not  understand  ?  " 
"  Well,  then,  it  is  what  is  called  a  mop  in  Wor- 
cester, if  you  have  ever  been  there." 
"  No ;  I  have  not.     But  why  a  mop  ?  " 
"  Because  there   is   a   mop  on  a  high  pole,  for 
the   people   to   stand   about,   at   the   hiring.     But 
go   on   a  little   way,   and   then   you  will   see  for 
yourself." 

In  the  market-place  there  were  ranged  in  rows 
more  than  fifteen  hundred  men  and  women  ;  the 
men  on  one  side  of  the  cross,  and  the  women 
on  the  other.  Up  and  down,  between  these 
rows,  walked  the  farmers  and  their  wives,  seek- 
ing for  such  men  and  women  as  they  would 
need  in  their  houses  for  the  ensuing  twelve 
months,  —  wagoners,  shepherds,  cowmen,  house- 


A    TALE. 

maids,  and  dairy-maids.  Among  the  women  every 
now  and  then  a  girl  would  step  out  of  the  rows 
to  talk  with  some  farmer  and  his  wife.  Some- 
times the  girl  would  agree  to  their  proposal  at 
once,  and  receive  a  shilling  for  what  was  called 
earnest-money.  And  sometimes  she  would  quick- 
ly decline  an  offer  made  her,  influenced  by  some 
dissatisfaction,  either  at  the  amount  of  the  wa- 
ges, or  at  the  expression  of  the  master's  eye,  or 
at  something  shrewish  in  the  voice  of  the  mistress. 

At  first,  with  what  he  saw,  Martin  May  was 
sad.  But  all  round  the  outskirts  of  the  assem- 
blage there  were  such  shouts  and  laughter,  and 
ludicrous  sights,  that  from  them  soon  he  caught 
the  humor  of  the  occasion.  He  went  up  to  a 
very  fat  young  woman,  who  held  an  umbrella 
in  one  hand,  and  a  large  bundle  in  the  other. 
And  he  accosted  her,  as  though  he  was  a  house- 
keeper desirous  of  her  services,  "  Young  woman, 
you  are  a  " 

"  A  housemaid,  or  housemaid  and  cook,  sir. 
And  if  you  please,  sir,  I  can  do  a  little  plain 
sewing.  And  when  there  is  a  pig  killed " 

"  And  what  can  you  do  when  there  is  a  pig 
killed?" 

"  Sir,  I  can  help." 

"  And  now   I  want  to  know  about  your  cook- 


THORPE, 

ing.  What  cakes  can  you  make  ?  Symballs, 
doughnuts,  jumbles,  cream-cakes,  and  buckwheat, 
molasses  dough-cake,  ginger  cookies,  can  you 
make  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  can  make  oat-cakes,  if  they  would 
do." 

"  Can  you  make  griddle  or  hoe-cakes,  or  whaf- 
fles?" 

"  I  think  I  could  if  I  were  to  try.  For  please, 
sir,  I  can  make  oat-cakes  well." 

"  Can  you  make  a  squash  pie  ? " 

"  Squash !  Please,  sir,  I  do  not  know  what 
it  is  ?  " 

"  Can  you  make  a  chowder  ?  Do  you  know 
what  is  a  tipsy  parson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  Parson  Fuller,  that  used  to  live  at 
the  Glades." 

"  Ah,  was  he  ?  And  now  should  you  know 
what  to  do  with  clams?  Do  you  know  how  to 
cook  hominy  ?  Succotash,  —  do  you  know  any 
thing  about  that  ?  Succotash  !  " 

"  O,  sir,  I  came  from  Tyldesley,  and  they  have 
none  of  those  things  there.  And  I  am  sure,  sir, 
I  should  not  do  for  you." 

"  And  I  am  sure  I  think  you  would,  very  soon. 
But,  however,  we  will  say  no  more  about  it.  I 
will  not  hire  you.  But  I  will  give  you  some 


A    TALE.  221 

earnest-money.  Essentially  our  decision  is  philo- 
sophical, and  as  an  arrangement  it  is  more  congru- 
ent with  the  nature  of  things  than  its  opposite." 

The  girl  took  the  shilling  with  a  smile,  and 
went  back  and  stood  by  the  side  of  her  compan- 
ion, and  said  to  her,  "Such  a  queer  man  he  is! 
He  asked  me  about  all  manner  of  outlandish 
things  to  cook.  And  what  do  you  think?  At 
last,  he  talked  almost  like  that  Frenchman,  when 
we  could  not  tell  one  word  that  he  said,  that 
day  that  you  remember." 

Martin  May  went  on,  down  rows  of  girls  and 
past  booths,  at  which  were  sold  sweetmeats, 
printed  calicoes,  combs,  walking-sticks,  whips, 
knives,  ribbons,  horse-medicines,  halters,  dream- 
books,  mole-books,  song-books,  and  books  of 
receipts.  He  met  several  acquaintances,  who 
laughed  to  see  him  there.  Near  the  end  of  the 
last  row  of  women  there  was  a  girl  of  a  very 
pretty,  innocent  look.  She  seemed  to  be  of  a 
sweet,  confiding  disposition,  and  perhaps  to  be 
not  without  something  of  simplicity  in  her  char- 
acter. Towards  this  young  woman  Martin  May 
felt  himself  benevolently  disposed ;  for  he  pitied 
her,  as  she  did  not  seem  to  have  secured  for  her- 
self an  engagement.  So  he  thought  he  would 
present  her  with  some  earnest-money. 


222  THORPE, 

"  Young  woman,"  said  he,  "  you  are  a  house- 
maid, I  think." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  are  not  hired  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  the  girl,  in  a  tone  of  some 
mortification. 

"  Where  has  been  your  last  situation  ?  " 

"At  Mrs.  Lawson's.  I  lived  there,  sir,  two 
years." 

"  So  !     And  why  are  you  leaving  there  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  we  have  all  had  to  leave." 

"  Ah,  aU  of  you  ! " 

"  Yes,  sir,  five  of  us,  three  girls,  and  a  man, 
and  a  boy." 

"  I  hope  there  was  nothing  very  seriously  wrong 
among  you." 

"  No,  sir,  not  very.  Though  Mrs.  Lawson  cried. 
But  she  is  not  Mrs.  Lawson  now.  And  Mr. 
Smith  said  he  could  not  and  he  would  not  live 
at  the  Pinfold,  and  that  she  must  go  and  live 
with  him  at  some  grand  place  beyond  London. 
And  so  she  is  Mrs.  Smith  now,  and  we  do  not 
live  with  her  now." 

"And  what  wages  do  you  ask?" 

"  Eight  pounds,  sir,  a  year." 

"  I  like  your  appearance  very  much.  I  think 
a  woman  like  you  would  suit  me  well.  There 
is  earnest-money." 


A    TALE.  223 

The  girl  extended  her  hand;  but  she  was  just 
going  to  ask  a  question,  when  Martin  May  gave 
her  half  a  crown,  and  said,  "  Now  you  will  have 
your  things  all  ready  against  I  want  you.  And 
I  will  meet  you  here  in  the  village,  and  take  you 
on,  next  Thursday." 

The  girl  gazed  at  the  handsome  earnest-money, 
and  asked  timidly,  "  But  where  do  you  live,  sir  ?  " 

"  At  Boston." 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  of  it.  But  is  not  it  a 
long  way  off,  in  Lincolnshire  ?  " 

"  O,  no ! "  said  Martin  May,  in  a  very  earnest 
tone.  "  I  will  meet  you  here  and  take  you  down 
to  Liverpool.  And  so  then  in  a  ship  we  will  go 
to  America." 

At  this  the  girl  burst  into  tears  and  cried,  "  O, 
but  I  cannot  go,  please,  sir.  O  dear,  sir,  I  cannot 
go,  I  must  not  go.  Not  over  the  sea !  O  dear, 
dear,  what  shall  I  do  ?  O,  pray,  sir,  do  take  this 
money  back.  O  dear,  O  dear!" 

At  this  sound  of  distress  up  rushed  a  young 
man  with  a  red  neckerchief,  and  a  red  waist- 
coat. He  drew  the  young  girl  aside,  and  planted 
himself  before  Martin  May,  and  cried,  "  What  are 
you  doing  to  this  young  woman  ?  Let  me 
alone,  Jenny.  This  is  my  business."  And  as 
he  said  this  he  clenched  his  fists  and  breathed 


224  THORPE, 

hard.  But  a  policeman  laid  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  said,  "  Quietly,  rny  man !  What  is 
all  this  noise  for  ?  " 

Martin  May  turned  to  the  young  woman  and 
said,  "  It  would  have  been  all  a  joke,  only  that 
you  were  so  frightened.  And  that  earnest-money 
was  to  pay  for  it.  There!  keep  it.  You  deserve 
it,  I  am  sure.  And  I  only  wish  I  had  a  home 
for  you  to  come  and  live  at.  Good  by." 

Martin  May  walked  on ;  and  Jenny  cried, 
"  Thank  you,  sir ;  thank  you,  sir."  And  then  she 
turned  to  the  young  man  and  reproved  him. 
"  O  James,  James,  to  think  of  your  running  up 
in  that  way,  and  laying  hold  of  me  so,  before 
all  the  people !  And  then  to  speak  in  such  a 
way  as  you  did  to  such  a  good  gentleman  as  he 
was !  But  you  know,  James,  you  always  were 
so  passionate !  Always !  But  I  do  wish  you 
would  not  be ;  for  you  see  what  a  bad  thing  it  is." 

The  policeman  followed  after  Martin  May 
and  said,  "  Excuse  me,  sir.  Squire  Burleigh's 
footman  asked  me  to  look  out  for  you,  and  to 
tell  you  that  he  had  left  a  note  for  you  at  your 
lodgings.  And  he  said  he  thought  you  would 
like  to  know  of  its  being  there.  Curious  people, 
sir,  these  countrymen,  on  a  day  like  this,  espe- 
cially when  they  have  had  a  little  ale." 


A    TALE.  225 


XXVIII. 

"  So,  Percy,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  so  you  are  res- 
olute to  forego  money  and  comfort,  and  you  are 
intent  on  discomfort,  and  perhaps  usefulness." 

"  Do  not  understand  me  as  speaking  more 
enthusiastically  than  I  mean,  and  then,  uncle 
George,  I  will  try  to  let  you  know  what  I  feel. 
Of  myself  I  incline  to  this  life  of  religious  study, 
but  also  I  think  I  am  drawn  to  it.  Sir,  you  are 
a  religious  man,  and  you  believe  that  for  indi- 
viduals in  private  life  there  may  be  actions,  and 
that  for  a  nation  in  its  history  there  may  be 
sometimes  a  crisis,  toward  which  a  man  may 
be  led  by  guidance  that  is  higher  than  human." 

"  Go  on,  Percy." 

"  I  think  religion  wants  a  new  birth,  needs 
to  be  vitalized  in  the  heart  of  some  man  pecu- 
liar either  for  genius,  or  for  education,  or  for 
his  spiritual  experiences.  However,  for  this  ef- 

15 


226  THORPE, 

feet  I  do  not  mean  that  any  one  man,  or  any 
ten,  would  be  sufficient.  At  present,  in  the 
minds  of  men  religion  is  weakened  by  science; 
and  yet  almost  uniformly  it  is  preached  as 
though  there  existed  no  such  thing  as  science. 
From  the  pulpit,  on  the  subject  of  the  Deity, 
sermons  continue  to  be  preached  by  men  who 
are  sublimely  indifferent  as  to  any  thing  that 
can  be  seen  through  the  telescope,  or  any  thing 
that  can  be  inferred  from  the  discoveries  of  ge- 
ology or  from  the  laws  of  chemistry." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  quite  true  of  such  preach- 
ers as  you  b,ave  oftenest  heard." 

"  But  though  ignored  by  religious  teachers, 
•natural  science  makes  itself  felt  in  religious 
minds,  and  weakens  for  them  their  faith.  And 
so  now  there  is  hardly  a  Scriptural  doctrine 
which  any  man  believes  in  now  as  he  ought, 
in  the  ease  of  his  soul,  genially  and  undoubt- 
ingly.  Science  reads  aloud  to  us  from  the  great 
volumes  of  earth  and  sky,  and  points  to  objects 
about  our  feet,  and  to  the  stars  overhead.  And 
then  ourselves  afterwards,  in  reading  the  Bible, 
we  believe  as  much  as  we  can.  Hardly  now 
does  any  man  believe  in  the  God  of  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  except  with  his  lips  and  from  old 
habit;  for  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  rise  of 


A    TALE.  227 

themselves  in  his  mind  evince  him  to  be  really 
a  believer  in  the  God  of  Copernicus  and  Newton. 
The  grace  of  God,  —  is  not  this  fast  becoming 
merely  a  figure  of  speech  ?  We  believe  in  the 
God  of  heaven  and  earth ;  but  who  is  there 
that  believes,  and  trembles,  and  walks,  and  re- 
joices, as  though  on  his  own  shoulder  were  laid 
the  hand  of  God,  lightly,  but  unavoidably  ?  Who 
is  there  that  ever  feels  as  though  God  were  angry 
or  pleased  with  him?  And  except  in  some  few 
blessed  moments,  now  and  then,  do  not  most 
persons  feel  as  though  their  prayers  went  up  in- 
to the  empty  skies,  and  not  into  an  anxious,  lis- 
tening ear?  Peace  and  joy  in  believing,  —  how 
rare  they  are!  God!  he  is  understood  as  being 
a  God  of  the  stars,  —  a  God  of  electrical  and 
chemical  laws,  —  a  God  of  uniformity,  but  not 
a  God  of  souls;  a  God  of  men,  all  men,  but 
not  a  God  of  men  one  by  one,  —  not  a  God  of 
a  covenant,  —  not  a  God  whom  I  can  have  for 
myself  as  effectively  as  though  we  were  alone 
in  the  universe,  —  he  and  I." 

"  That  is  true,  Percy,  miserably  true.  And 
yet  it  had  never  occurred  to  me,  at  least  not  in 
the  way  you  state  it." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Percy,  "  I  believe  in  science. 
But  also  I  do  believe  that  God  reaches  after  me, 


228  THORPE, 

as  though  with  the  arm  of  Christ,  and  that  he 
speaks  to  me  as  though  from  the  lips  of  Christ, 
Christ,  —  God  in  Christ,  an  everlasting  rev.ela- 
tion,  —  I  do  wholly  and  joyfully  believe.  From 
the  stars  of  Orion,  you  may  infer  what  the  man- 
ner of  the  Divine  power  is  among  the  stars  of 
another  constellation.  But  from  what  God  is 
to  the  stars  anywhere,  you  never  can  infer  what 
he  is  to  the  souls  that  dwell  in  a  planet,  —  souls 
that  are  not  mere  insensate  matter,  but  crea- 
tures of  freedom  and  thought  and  feeling.  From 
the  laws  of  nature,  I  can  learn  what  God  is  to 
my  body,  but  not  what  he  is  to  my  soul,  —  not 
all  he  is,  and  how  he  is.  Not  from  the  sky,  nor 
out  of  the  earth,  nor  from  science,  nor  from  hu- 
man logic,  but  only  from  out  of  a  soul,  can  I 
learn  what  God  is  to  my  soul,  —  only  from  what 
David  felt  and  Isaiah  showed,  and  perfectly  on- 
ly from  Jesus  the  Mediator.  Against  all  preju- 
dices to  the  contrary,  which  originate  with  sci- 
ence, I  do  believe  that  like  the  manner  of  heart 
with  heart  is  the  way  of  God  with  each  human 
soul.  And  in  this  faith  I  can  pray  prayers 
that  are  prayers,  and  I  can  meditate  as  though 
in  solemn  talk  with  God.  And  looking  heaven- 
wards I  can  open  my  soul  and  have  it  grow  joy- 
ous, and  holy  through  joy,  and  strong." 


A    TALE.  229 

"  I  am  listening  with  great  interest,"  said  Mr. 
Coke. 

"  I  can  foresee  that  soon  against  the  world  to 
come  there  will  rise  thick  clouds  of  unbelief,  in 
which  men  will  have  to  walk  as  tkough  in  dark- 
ness. But  myself  I  know  of  means  for  building 
a  high  tower  of  thought,  by  ascending  which  a 
man  shall  find  himself  shone  upon  by  the  Sun 
of  Righteousness,  and  comforted  by  the  healing 
in  its  wings.  This  tower,  this  church-tower,  shall 
I  not,  ought  I  not  to  build  it,  if  I  can  ?  Shall  I 
decline  this  holy  work  merely  for  the  sake  of  re- 
building an  old  house  ?  " 

"  You  shall  do,  Percy,  altogether  as  you  think 
right." 

"  I  think,  too,  that  I  see  how  they  are  properly 
tenable  together,  some  doctrines  of  religion  which 
have  been  usually  thought  to  be  inconsistent, 
and  of  which  one  sect  has  taken  one,  and  an- 
other sect  another.  Also  I  think  I  have  some 
fresh  perception  of  my  own,  as  to  the  use  of  rea- 
son in  religion,  —  how  far  and  how  far  only  hu- 
man ways  of  thought  are  rightly  applicable  to 
the  interpretation  of  Divine  things.  And,  uncle 
George,  I  think  also,  as  I  have  slid  before,  that 
I  have  some  ideas  of  my  own  on  politics." 

"  No  wonder  it  usually  ends  in   stupidity,  —  a 


230  THORPE, 

college  course  which  begins  with  having  a  boy 
sign  the  Thirty-nine  Articles.  But  that  natural 
result  of  your  education  I  think  you  have  es- 
caped. And  even  if  you  had  become  a  rector, 
and  preached,  self-denial  to  a  congregation  of 
peasants,  on  an  income  of  two  thousand  pounds 
a  year,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  had  your 
hearers  be  the  worse  for  you,  —  be  the  more  stu- 
pid. O  the  way  some  congregations  suffer  from 
some  eloquent  preachers!  All  intellect  among 
them,  for  the  time  at  least,  dying  a  delightful 
death  of  inanity." 

"  As  you  know,  uncle,  I  have  never  heard  one 
of  your  speeches.  And  if  I  were  still  a  Tory,  I 
do  not  think  I  should  wish  to  hear  you,  especially 
on  your  favorite  topics  of  the  Established  Church, 
tithe,  and  church-rate." 

"  Rabid  you  think  I  am.  But  I  know  that  I 
am  not.  Just  now,  Percy,  you  were  speaking 
of  the  ill  effects  of  science  on  religion." 

"  On  the  way  in  which,  from  scientific  pre- 
dispositions, it  happens  to  us  that  our  idea  of 
God  is  that  merely  of  a  mechanical,  and  not  an 
emotional  Being,  —  how  he  is  to  us  a  great  ma- 
chine, wonderful,  almighty,  beneficent,  but  not 
bur  Father.  Not  a  Being  I  can  weep  to,  and 
for  whom  I  can  suffer,  but  only  a  machine  so 


A    TALE.  231 

comprehensive  and  exact,  as  that  to  the  perfection 
of  it  there  goes  every  thing,  —  every  grain  of 
sand,  and  every  star,  and  every  thought  of  mine." 

"  Do  not  you  think  that  often  in  philosophy 
it  is  something  merely  fortuitous  which  deter- 
mines a  man  whether  to  follow  Plato,  or  Locke, 
or  Hartley." 

"  I  think  so.  Once  I  was  at  a  place  called 
Weatheroak  Hill,  an  eminence  from  which  little 
brooks  started  towards  the  east  and  the  west; 
one  of  them  finding  its  way  to  the  Irish  Sea,  and 
the  other  to  the  Trent  and  the  German  Ocean. 
And  I  think  there  is  a  point  from  which  start 
various  ways  of  philosophizing,  and  towards  fol- 
lowing either  one  of  which  a  man  may  be  in- 
clined possibly  by  some  casual  circumstance,  some 
mere  matter  of  taste  or  feeling." 

"  So  it  always  appeared  to  me.  And  there- 
fore it  seems  to  me  such  utter  folly  to  accept  the 
Scriptures  as  the  records  of  a  Divine  revelation, 
and  then  to  read  them  by  the  help  of  some  philo- 
sophical system,  libertarian  or  necessarian." 

"  O,  but  the  fixed  principles  of  philosophy,  so 
demonstrably  unchangeable  !  Such  a  sure  foun- 
dation for  a  church  !  While  really,  at  the  bottom, 
there  is  nothing  more  fluid.  It  is  as  if  some 
Christians  of  Abyssinia  should  build  a  church 


232  THORPE, 

on  a  raft,  —  a  church  of  width  and  height  and 
beauty,  and  on  it,  high  up  in  the  air,  the  Cross. 
A  church,  a  Christian  church !  But  all  the 
while  beneath  it  flows  the  Nile,  and  sweeps  it 
along  down  to  Egypt,  and  into  the  midst  of  idol- 
atrous things,  or  perhaps  out  into  the  Mediter- 
ranean Sea,  an  utter  wreck." 

"  And  O  the  many  minds  now,"  said  Mr. 
Coke,  "  that  are  being  swept  away  into  scep- 
ticism, some  from  one  cause,  and  some  from 
another!  Only  to  think  that  of  the  people  of 
this  country  more  than  a  half  are  living  apart 
from  every  Christian  institution !  And  of  those 
who  are  really  religious,  how  many  there  are 
who  are  distressed  with  doubts,  miserably,  per- 
niciously !  It  is  a  serious  matter  to  resolve  on, 
—  a  life  of  such  study  as  you  contemplate.  Bat 
as  you  say,  it  does  seem  almost  as  though  you 
might  be  appointed  to  it." 

"  O  my  life !  Five  years  I  lived  at  Oxford, 
and  was  a  gownsman  there,  and  walked  in  all 
the  pride  and  poetry  and  high  pretence  of  her 
ways,  only  to  have  them  at  last  feel  some  of 
them  unreal,  and  some  of  them  roads  to  gates 
which  I  could  not  honestly  open.  Three  years 
I  was  a  student  at  Bonn  and  Halle.  And  at, 
those  places  every  month  I  grew  more  and 


A    TALE.  233 

more  learned,  and  less  and  less  wise.  And 
seven  months  I  was  ill  at  Cologne.  And  the 
time  of  that  sickness  was  the  time  of  my  new 
birth.  Then  first  I  came  to  know  of  there  being 
in  me  other  faculties  than  the  logical,  critical, 
recollective,  by  the  aid  of  which  I  had  been  study- 
ing. And  there  opened  upon  me  views  which 
I  had  been  blind  to  before.  And  it  seemed  to 
me  as  though,  like  angels  from  heaven,  great, 
bright  thoughts  came  to  me  and  talked  with 
me.  And  O  the  trials  I  have  passed  through ! 
At  Oxford,  when  I  drew  back  from  signing 
again  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  all  over  England 
every  door  of  promotion  fell  to  against  me,  with 
a  loud  crash.  And  my  heart  in  me  sunk  at  the 
sound.  And  at  Bonn,  O  the  agony  of  thought 
I  had,  and  the  way  in  which  I  wept  for  the 
earth,  as  having  in  it  nothing  more  divine  than 
electricity!  O  those  dreary,  weary  months,  in 
which  I  grew  in  knowledge  and  in  sorrow!  A 
wretched  time  of  unbelief,  during  which  I  should 
never  perhaps  have  prayed  at  all,  but  for  a  dear 
old  habit,  derived  to  me,  without  a  day's  inter- 
ruption, from  the  time  when  I  used  to  lisp  sim- 
ple awful  words,  with  my  head  upon  my  moth- 
er's knee." 

"  You   have   had   stranger  experiences    than    I 
had  thought,  Percy." 


234  THORPE, 

"  It  is  an  age  of  such  contending  principles, 
and  therefore  necessarily  of  principles  that  are 
often  only  partially  true.  Often  among  religion- 
ists there  are  to  be  found  men  of  vehement 
profession,  and  excited  feeling;  but  so  seldom 
a  man  calmly  and  thoroughly  persuaded  in  his 
own  mind.  And  whence  this  bewildered  state 
of  men  religiously  ?  Very  largely  it  is  because 
from  science  and  history  there  is  so  much  new 
information,  of  which  it  has  not  yet  been  set- 
tled whether  it  means  any  thing  or  nothing  in 
religion ;  and  if  nothing,  how  and  why  it  means 
nothing." 

"  And  politically  how  strange  things  are !  In 
Manchester  there  are  the  Tories,  who  hold  by 
the  right  divine  of  the  government  to  govern 
wrong,  provided  only  it  be  done  according  to 
Tory  maxims ;  and  there  are  the  Whigs,  good, 
sensible  men  like  myself,  but  who  unfortunately 
have  to  follow  some  questionable  aristocrats  for 
leaders;  and  there  are  the  Chartists,  who  want 
every  thing  changed,  they  do  not  know  how, 
and  who  are  furnishing  themselves  just  now, 
every  man,  with  an  argument  from  the  anvil, — 
a  pike,  a  horrible  instrument  like  a  spear,  with 
a  hook  on  one  side  of  it.  And  then,  besides 
Tories,  Whigs,  and  Chartists,  we  have  those  who 


A    TALE.  235 

believe  that  public  matters  will  go  right  of  them- 
selves, some  way,  if  there  is  no  noise  made.  And 
also  there  are  your  old  Oxford  friends,  who  be- 
lieve that  every  body  and  every  thing  and  every 
movement  must  be  wrong,  that  does  not  add  to 
the  stones  or  the  gold  of  what  they  call  their 
church.  And  so,  there  being  such  an  opposition 
and  contention  and  bewilderment  in  politics,  I 
can  well  conceive  how  it  may  be  in  some  other 
regions  of  thought." 

"  For  those  who  start  right,  the  way  to  the 
Temple  of  Religious  Truth,  and  by  the  gate  of 
Strong  Conviction,  may  still  be  plain  and  unmis- 
takd'ble.  But  certainly  it  is  not  so  for  those 
who  start  from  among  such  prejudices  as  I  did. 

0  my   mental   wanderings !      I   have  walked   in 
the  shadows  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  listened 
to   music  from   some   invisible   source   within  it, 
and  felt  soothed   and    inclined   to   have  my  fore- 
head  crossed   with    holy   water    from    the   fount. 

1  have  sat  in  a  school  of  philosophy,  and  learned 
to   think   that  between  right  and  wrong  there  is 
only  the  difference  between  convenience  and  in- 
convenience.     And   for   a   time    I  knew  what  it 
was   to  eschew  some  vices,  not  for  being  sinful, 
but  only  as  being  in  bad  taste.      Following  one 
guide  and  another,  I  have  been  so  misled  that  I 


THORPE 


have  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and  been 
inclined  to  throw  myself  off  it,  with  words  of 
Seneca  and  philosophy  falsely  so  called.  And 
I  remember  that  once  I  wandered  along  side  of 
the  Rhine,  and  I  sat  down  almost  in  the  shadow 
of  the  old  castle  of  the  Drachenfels.  At  my 
feet,  out  of  a  piece  of  turf  there  came  a  worm, 
and  then  drew  back  into  it  again.  And  I  said, 
*  It  is  an  emblem  of  myself,  —  this  worm  in  a 
clod.  For  what  better  is  this  earth,  than  a 
mere  heap  of  dust  for  me  to  struggle  in  ? '  Yes, 
uncle,  I  do  believe  that  I  have  walked  through 
all  the  unbelief  and  the  misbelief  of  this  century. 
'And  when  thou  art  converted,  strengthen  *  thy 
brethren.'  These  words  were  intended  to  reach 
beyond  Simon  Peter.  They  have  reached  my 
ear.  And  in  a  special  manner  they  sound  as 
though  meant  for  me,  now  that  I  have  come 
through  so  much  scepticism,  —  now  that  I  am  in 
Christian  daylight,  —  now  that  I  can  worship  in 
the  attitude  of  Jesus,  and  feel  God  looking  at  me, 
as  though  through  the  eyes  of  Christ,  —  now  that 
I  have  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Mediator." 
"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Coke.  «  Truth  feels  all  the 
truer  to  a  man  who  has  once  been  without  it. 
And  out  of  a  million  persons,  if  we  could  know 
the  one  man  who  religiously  thinks  most  cor- 


A    TALE.  237 

rectly  and  feels  most  strongly,  I  suppose  we 
should  hold  him  absolved  from  many  a  common 
consideration  of  convenience  and  prudence,  and 
bound  to  utter  himself  and  let  his  soul  speak  for 
the  good  of  the  world.  And  I  do  not  know  but 
that  to  people  bewildered  you  ought  to  say 
what  you  can  for  their  guidance,  —  you  having 
been  brought  into  the  light  through  such  tortuos- 
ities and  darkness.  Doubt,  unbelief,  misbelief,  the 
way  to  the  truth,  —  I  suppose  you  know  them, 
now,  as  you  could  not  have  known  them  in  any 
other  way  than  by  having  been  through  them." 

"O,"  said  Percy,  in  a  tone  of  some  emotion, 
"  O^  there  is  an  experience  for  the  want  of  which 
no  reading  and  no  observation  and  no  study  can 
compensate,  —  the  experience  of  a  man  who  has 
lost  the  way  of  faith,  and  so  wandered  through 
regions  on  which  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  never 
shines,  and  where  the  moon  in  the  sky  looks  as 
though  turned  into  blood,  —  the  experience  of 
one  who  has  been  astray  from  Christ,  and  who 
by  seeking  his  own  way  has  found  himself  be- 
wildered among  the  foundations  on  which  exist- 
ence rests ;  and  who  has  had  to  ask  there,  in  tears, 
and  agony,  and  with  uplifted  eyes  and  hands, 
'  Wherefore  is  light  given  to  him  that  is  in  misery, 
and  life  unto  the  bitter  in  soul  ?  '  " 


238  THORPE, 


XXIX. 

INTO  all  the  country  about  Thorpe  Martin 
May  continued  to  make  excursions  after  antiqui- 
ties of  all  kinds.  And  he  felt,  both  in  body 
and  mind,  the  good  of  exercise,  fresh  air,  and 
the  quieting  influence  of  nature.  He  loved  to 
walk  in  narrow  lanes,  between  hawthorn  hedges, 
which  sometimes  met  above  his  head  and  made 
a  long,  green  roof.  And  he  was  fond  of  following 
footpaths  through  green  meadows,  and  across 
brooks  on  stepping-stones,  and  now  and  then 
through  some  shady  copse,  only  to  see  where  he 
would  be  led  to.  He  would  sit  down  on  a  bank 
or  a  stile,  and  talk  with  children,  or  he  would 
walk  along  side  a  ploughman  at  his  work,  or  he 
would  find  himself  thirsty  at  some  cottage  door, 
and  in  need  of  some  .woman's  charity,  or  he 
would  acknowledge  the  friendly  nod  of  some  farm- 
er, and  so  slide  into  conversation  with  him. 


A    TALE.  239 

He  went  to  see  the  ruins  of  Elmsley  Church, 
and  saw  tall  arches  standing  on  high  in  beauty, 
but  with  the  ground  about  them  all  overgrown 
with  briers  and  nettles.  He  went  to  the  ruins 
of  an  old  castle,  and  passed  hours  in  walking 
round  the  dry  moat,  and  climbing  the  embank- 
ments, and  in  gazing  from  the  top  of  the  tower 
over  the  adjacent  country,  marked  all  over  it 
with  hedges  and  streams,  and  every  here  and 
there  with  a  clump  of  trees  and  a  few  houses 
standing  together. 

o  o  ^^ 

Of  the  churches  which  he  went  to  see,  one  was 
of  the  twelfth  century,  and  showed,  carved  round 
the  porch,  just  discernible,  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  ; 
and  another  was  remarkable  for  its  old  door,  cov- 
ered all  over  with  the  heads  of  Scriptural  per- 
sonages. To  one  church  he  went  a  long  dis- 
tance, merely  to  see  the  poor's  box  in  it.  It 
stood  on  legs,  and  was  shaped  like  the  roof  of  a 
house,  and  had  three  keyholes  in  it.  It  was  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  and  was  clasped  all  round  it 
and  over  it  with  iron  bands.  In  sport,  Martin 
May  dropped  a  penny  into  it.  But  the  sexton 
exclaimed,  "  Sir,  you  must  not  do  that.  Nobody 
ever  does  that  now.  It  is  clean  throwing  the 
money  away.  For  there  never  has  been  a  key 
to  that  box,  at  least  not  in  my  time,  nor  in  my 
father's." 


240  THORPE, 

At  another  church,  while  he  was  walking  about 
it,  there  came  in  the  clerk  and  began  tolling  the 
great  bell.  It  was  the  passing-bell.  And  it 
was  the  first  time  that  Martin  May  had  ever 
heard  it.  The  clerk  said,  "  It  is  for  Jack  Chew. 
And  it  is  a  good  riddance  of  him.  But  as  for 
the  bell,  he  does  not  deserve  it.  But  his  wife, 
poor  woman,  says  she  should  like  to  have  him 
die  respectably,  and  like  every  body  else.  And 
so  she  sent  me  word  that  he  was  dying,  and  must 
have  the  bell  tolled." 

He  went  to  see  a  house  of  the  age  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  And  he  noticed  that,  like  many  other 
large  houses  of  that  period,  it  was  loyally  built 
in  the  shape  of  the  letter  E.  He  sat  against  the 
rugged,  gnarled  trunk  of  an  oak-tree,  that  was 
probably  two  thousand  years  old.  It  was  a  tree 
about  which  the  Saxons  of  what  was  called  the 
weapontake  used  to  assemble  with  their  arms, 
on  there  being  given  any  alarm  of  an  enemy. 
And  he  said,  "  What  would  this  tree  be  on  the 
Hudson  or  the  Potomac  ?  Worthless  wood,  and 
no  more !  Old,  old  !  Things  are  old  only  against 
the  human  lives  they  have  outlasted.  The  men 
of  a  thousand  years  ago,  the  Saxons  who  gath- 
ered together  here  with  their  swords  and  axes, 
where  are  they  ?  And  yet  here  stands  this  tree ; 


A    TALE.  241 

and  out  of  its  old  roots  still  creeps  up,  under 
this  rugged  bark,  life  enough  for  a  few  leaves. 
Life  in  an  oak-tree,  —  it  is  strong  for  a  thousand 
years,  and  it  will  last  even  two  thousand.  But 
life  in  me,  life  in  any  man,  —  it  quivers  on  the 
pulse  awhile,  a  little  while,  and  then  it  is  still, 
it  is  vanished." 

In  the  houses  of  the  farmers  and  the  gentry 
there  were  articles  of  interest  for  him,  —  an  old 
chair  of  black-oak,  with  a  head  very  elaborately 
carved  in  the  back  of  it,  —  a  set  of  Apostle- 
spoons,  being  common  spoons,  with  the  heads  of 
the  twelve  Apostles  on  the  tops  of  the  handles, 
—  a  curfew  which  had  been  used  for  extinguish- 
ing the  fire  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  ac- 
cording to  the  law  of  William  the  Conqueror, — 
a  peg-tankard,  a  wooden  vessel  with  pegs  of  meas- 
urement inside  for  drinking  by,  —  an  hourglass, 
which  had  been  found  in  a  coffin,  —  a  slip  of 
parchment,  a  very  ancient  deed,  on  which  was 
written  in  red  ink  the  grant  of  a  manor  to  some 
Norman,  by  William  Rufus. 

He  journeyed  to  see  the  Devil's  Spadefull,  and 
found  it  was  a  round  hill  in  the  midst  of  a  plain. 
Jacob's  Ladder  he  went  to,  and  found  it  was  only 
a  flight  of  steps  down  a  steep  bank.  In  a  seclud- 
ed spot,  he  sought  out  what  was  called  the  Lazar- 

16 


THORPE 


house,  —  the  hospital  for  lepers  three  or  four  hun- 
dred years  ago,  when  leprosy  was  a  European 
disease. 

Other  places  to  which  he  journeyed  were  a 
field  on  which  there  had  been  a  battle  during 
the  civil  wars,  —  the  site  of  a  Roman  encamp- 
ment, —  a  portion  of  an  old  Roman  road,  —  a 
barrow,  a  mound  of  earth  on  the  top  of  a  hill, 
inclosing  in  it  the?  remains  perhaps  of  Danes,  or 
possibly  of  ancient  Britons. 

One  day  he  made  a  visit  to  a  hospital,  as  it 
was  called,  being  one  of  the  many  schools  found- 
ed all  over  the  country  during  the  reign  of  Ed- 
ward the  Sixth.  And  he  thought  in  that  school 
the  sixteenth  century  was  even  then  not  quite 
over.  For  the  boys  were  dressed,  each  of  them, 
with  a  blue  cap,  a  long  blue  coat,  blue  small- 
clothes buckled  at  the  knee,  and  with  yellow 
stockings.  And  Martin  May  found,  too,  that  the 
youths  were  fed  and  taught  after  a  like  ancient 
manner. 

On  one  of  his  excursions  he  saw  a  high,  strong 
pole,  with  an  arm  extended  from  the  top  of  it. 
It  was  a  gibbet,  on  which  once  there  had  been 
hung  in  irons  the  body  of  a  poacher,  who  had 
killed  a  gamekeeper,  in  an  affray  one  night  in 
the  woods.  And  as  he  looked  at  it,  there  oc- 


A    TALE.  243 

curred  to  him  some  of  the  strange  words  that  are 
in  the  Runic  chapter  of  the  Edda.     "  If  I  see  a 
man  dead,  and  hanging   aloft   on   a   tree,    I   en-  / 
grave  Runic  characters  so  wonderful  that  the  man 
immediately  descends  and  converses  with  me." 

He  went  to  a  town  at  some  distance  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  a  man  of  nearly  one  hundred 
and  twenty  years  of  age,  and  who  had  seen  the 
battle  of  Preston-Pans,  on  the  last  irruption  of 
the  Highlanders  into  England.  Another  man  he 
went  to  see  was  Roger  Dowbiggen,  a  farmer 
who  owned  and  cultivated  the  same  land  of 
which  his  ancestors  had  been  possessed  before 
the  Conquest.  And  he  found  that  this  man  of 
ancient  family,  and  even  of*  some  wealth,  had 
never  been  twenty  miles  from  his  house,  and  had 
just  sold,  as  old  iron,  a  complete  suit  of  armor, 
in  which  one  of  his  ancestors  had  fought  at 
Flodden  Field,  and  which  had  been  lying  like 
lumber  in  the  house,  as  the  farmer  said,  for  hun- 
dreds of  years. 

Also  he  came  to  perceive  of  his  own  knowledge, 
how  inveterate  is  superstition,  —  what  a  life 
there  is  in  any  practice  or  thought  which  has 
once  had  hold  of  the  public  mind.  He  found 
there  were  still  surviving  traces  of  the  ancient 
Pho2iiician  worship  of  the  sun, — distinct  remains 


244  THORPE, 

of  the  Roman  celebration  of  the  festival  of  Maia, 
—  indications  of  the  Saxon  worship  which  had 
for  its  objects  Thor  and  Woden,  —  and  prac- 
tices and  beliefs  which  the  fierce  Norseman  had 
taught,  and  yet  also  had  trembled  to  tell  of. 

From  some  children  he  learned  that  on  New 
Year's  Day  they  buy  blessing-cakes,  with  pence 
given  them  for  the  purpose,  —  that  on  Twelfth 
Day  there  are  twelfth-cakes,  very  costly,  and  not 
often  to  be  seen,  except  in  the  shop-windows  of 
the  confectioners,  —  that  on  Shrove  Tuesday  the 
church  bell  rings  for  an  hour,  as  a  signal  for  pan- 
cakes to  be  made  in  every  house,  —  that  on  Good 
Friday,  for  breakfast,  every  body  has  crossbuns,  — 
that  on  Christmas  Day  there  is  mince-pie,  and  that 
a  person  has  as  many  happy  months  in  the  ensu- 
ing year  as  he  eats  different  kinds  of  mince-pie. 

Close  by  the  Dell  was  a  vivacious  old  woman, 
whom  he  often  got  to  repeat  old  ballads  to  him, 
and  old  songs.  But  she  was  simply  an  old 
woman  of  Thorpe.  And  so  in  nothing  of  her 
repeating  was  there  any  thing  to  equal  what 
the  Norseman  had  professed.  For  he  said,  "  I 
am  possessed  of  songs,  such  as  neither  the  spouse 
of  a  king  nor  any  son  of  man  can  repeat.  One 
of  them  is  called  the  Helper.  It  will  help  thee 
at  thy  need,  in  sickness,  grief,  and  all  adversities." 


A    TALE.  245 

But  some  help  there  was  for  him  at  this  time 
in  some  very  old  lines,  which  had  come  into  his 
mind  he  did  not  know  how,  nor  how  correctly. 

"And  there  is  peace  without  any  strife, 
And  there  is  all  manner  of  liking  for  life, 
And  there  is  bright  summer  ever  to  see, 
And  there  is  never  winter  in  that  country, 
And  there  is  great  melody  of  angels'  song, 
And  there  is  praising  them  among. 
All  these  a  man  may  joys  of  heaven  call ; 
And  yet  the  most  sovereign  joy  of  all 
Is  the  sight  on  high  of  God's  bright  face, 
In  whom  there  rests  all  manner  of  grace." 


246  THORPE 


XXX. 

ONE  day,  when  the  minister  was  with  him, 
Mr.  Coke  said,  "  I  wish  you  to  do  me  a  favor, 
Mr.  Lingard.  I  wish  you  to  give  me  your  can- 
did judgment  on  the  literary  abilities  of  my 
nephew." 

"  I  think  of  them  very  highly  indeed." 

"  But  what  I  want  from  you  is  your  opinion, 
not  as  to  his  learning  or  industry,  but  as  to  his 
genius,  if  he  has  any.  And  whether  he  has  or 
not,  is  what  myself  I  cannot  tell,  because  I  am 
not  so  much  a  judge  of  genius  as  I  am  of  cotton 
and  cloths.  Percy  is  an  honest,  noble  man,  and 
wishes  to  devote  himself  to  a  life  of  study,  believ- 
ing that  so  he  can  be  of  some  service  to  mankind. 
Now  what  I  wish  you  to  do  for  him  and  me  is 
to  ascertain,  not  his  principles  of  thought  nor  his 
learning,  but  his  genius,  if  he  has  any." 

"  I  will  talk  with  him ;   but  myself  I  am  sure 


A    TALE.  247 

I  should  have  no  confidence  in  any  opinion  which 
I  might  form  about  him  in  the  manner  you  pro- 
pose." 

"  But  myself,  sir,  I  shall  have  implicit  confi- 
dence in  your  opinion.  And  so  I  hope  you  will 
give  it  me.  But  now  you  must  talk  with  him  in 
a  way  that  will  not  let  him  speak  from  his  mem- 
ory, but  only  out  of  his  heart  or  his  inventive 
powers.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  make  myself 
understood.  Do  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  know  even  better  than  I  do,  that  with 
all  men  often,  and  with  most  men  always  and 
universally,  conversation  is  merely  a  repetition  of 
facts  or  sentiments  which  they  have  learned. 
And  sometimes  I  have  thought,  in  listening  to 
a  conceited  and  much  admired  preacher,  that,  if 
suddenly  there  were  struck  from  his  sermon  all 
that  was  not  his  own,  he  would  be  left  standing 
before  his  idolaters,  a  senseless  idol,  dumb  and 
impudent." 

"  I  have  read,"  said  the  minister,  "  that  if  mad- 
der be  given  to  an  animal  in  its  food,  it  may  be 
found,  in  twelve  hours,  to  have  been  so  thor- 
oughly taken  into  the  system,  as  to  have  colored 
every  bone  in  the  body.  Madder  is  traceable, 
though  most  other  things  which  are  eaten  as 


248  THORPE, 

food  are  not.  And  because  proverbs  are  tracea- 
ble, the  .conversation  of  my  housekeeper  illustrates 
your  remark  exactly." 

"  Yes,  you  understand  me,"  said  Mr.  Coke. 
"  And  I  would  suggest  that,  in  talking  with 
Percy',  you  should  lead  the  conversation  to  im- 
portant subjects,  but  approach  them  from  some 
unusual  side,  and  not  remain  at  any  topic  long 
enough  for  him  to  recollect  himself,  and  so  for 
him  to  begin  talking  out  of  his  memory." 

"  Let  him  come  to  me  to-morrow  evening. 
Say  to  him  that  I  invite  him  to  come  and  sup 
with  me.  Tell  him  that  I  shall  expect  him  by 
eight  o'clock.  And  then  by  candle-light  and  the 
fireside,  and  during  the  genial  hour  or  two  that 
are  after  supper,  we  will  have  some  talk  together." 

"  I  wish  very  much  that  he  would  succeed  me 
in  my  business,  and  yet  also  I  should  be  delight- 
ed to  have  him  succeed  me  in  the  world  as  a  re- 
former. Not  that  I  would  have  him  work  in  my 
way.  No !  I  would  have  him  do  what  I  cannot 
do.  This  hand  of  mine  is  hardened  and  stiffened 
with  wielding  heavy  weapons  against  the  fortresses 
of  wrong.  But  the  intrenchments  of  oppression 
are  now  laid  open.  And  in  time  they  will,  every 
one  of  them,  be  levelled  with  the  ground.  And 
now  for  the  fresh  work  there  needs  a  fresh 


A    TALE.  249 

hand,  —  a  hand  that  can  wisely  guide  a  pen,  — 
the  hand  of  a  man  such  as  you  might  be  if  you 
would,  —  a  man  well  acquainted  with  the  lessons 
of  the  past  and  the  tendencies  of  the  present,  — 
a  man  who  can  read,  not  books  only,  but  the 
human  soul,  —  a  man  who  believes  in  God,  and 
in  the  existence  and  power  amongst  men  of  cer- 
tain laws  of  Providence,  which  must  be  kept  by, 
—  a  man  who  knows  how  social  institutions  must 
be  built,  not  without  attention  to  those  invisible 
but  irresistible  influences  which  flow  through  the 
minds  of  men,  from  some  of  the  mysterious  things 
of  the  spiritual  world,  such  as  evil  and  even  the 
way  it  is  thought  of.  Not  that  Percy  is  thinking 
of  being  a  political  writer.  For  I  suppose  his  men- 
tal tendency  is  towards  religious  sentiment." 

"  Beyond  all  things,  Mr.  Coke,  religion  is  politi- 
cal, is  what  organizes  men.  Keep  men  walking 
with  God,  earnest  to  follow  him,  and  with  very 
little  thought  about  themselves,  they  will  journey 
through  life  in  perfect  order.  And  because  their 
faces  are  set  in  the  right  direction,  they  will  find 
themselves  perhaps  quite  unexpectedly  falling 
into  the  most  beautiful  array.  And  all  the 
more  intently  they  look  towards  God,  all  the 
more  wonderfully  will  they  journey  on  together 
through  life;  multitudes  of  all  ages  and  conditions 


250  THORPE 


moving  along  in  a  harmony  that  is  divine.  But 
let  men  grow  irreligious,  let  them  turn  away 
from  God,  and  then  think,  hope,  try  as  they  will, 
they  cannot  move  but  into  anarchy.  As  to  in- 
stitutions, and  tone,  the  character  of  society  is 
very  largely  determined  by  the  way  or  the  no 
way  in  which  God  is  thought  of.  Remotely,  it 
may  be,  but  yet  quite  certainly,  the  real  states- 
man of  the  world  is  not  an  orator,  however  suc- 
cessful in  persuasion,  nor  a  lawyer,  however  emi- 
nent, nor  a  crowned  monarch,  but  a  theologian 
sitting  among  his  books,  alone  with  his  heart, 
and  with  his  pen  in  his  hand." 

"  Right,  Mr.  Lingard.  You  are  right.  And 
I  say  it  as  my  experience,  my  intense  conviction, 
that  the  spirit  of  reform  must  be  religious,  in  or- 
der to  be  rightly  effective.  No  social  change  of 
any  considerable  character  was  ever  made  for  the 
better,  merely  by  the  strength  of  logic,  or  the 
keenness  of  satire,  or  the  decision  of  sudden  en- 
thusiasm, or  even  by  the  incitements  of  that 
common  benevolence  which  thinks  more  of  suf- 
fering than  sin." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  minister,  "  for  the  spirit  of  pub- 
He  reform  to  be  right,  it  must  be  reverential,  as 
well  as  just.  And  it  must  not  be  mere  weak 
love,  but  be  thoughtful  with  the  seriousness  of 


A    TALE.  251 

history,  and  be  not  without  some  feeling  of  the 
mysteriousness  of  human  nature.  It  is  not  of 
mere  will,  or  legislative  enactment,  that  abiding 
laws  exist.  And  it  is  very  certain  that  no  na- 
tion ever  did,  or  ever  could,  adopt  by  mere  decree 
the  institutions  of  its  neighbors." 

"  No,  never  in  all  history,  I  believe.  If  you 
would  introduce  a  new  usage,  or  found  a  new 
institution,  it  must  be  adapted  to  the  spirit  of  the 
times,  and  have  upon  it  the  sanction  of  the  past. 
The  past!  what  have  I  to  do  with  the  past?  — 
so  many  a  man  asks.  And  he  thinks  he  lives 
only  from  day  to  day,  free  at  any  time  to  be  of 
a  new  temper,  Chinese,  Russian,  or  Dutch,  and 
capable  of  fitting  himself  to  any  customs  or 
ways  of  thought  which  he  chooses.  Whereas 
the  greatest  innovator,  when  he  is  himself  and 
calm,  speaks,  thinks,  feels,  acts,  very  largely  in  the 
spirit  of  the  past." 

"  Our  social  usages,"  said  the  minister,  "  run 
back  through  decayed  towns  and  vanished  cot- 
tages and  fallen  towers  into  the  remote  past. 
Our  laws  are  derived  to  us  from  many  genera- 
tions, and  are  ours,  not  without  an  influence  on 
them  from  the  Norsemen  of  Norway,  and  the 
Saxons  of  Germany,  and  the  lawyers  and  the 
Senate  of  ancient  Rome.  And  in  our  statute- 


252 


THORPE, 


book  there  is  not  a  little  which  might  be  traced 
through  our  English  courts,  and  the  bulls  of  the 
Pope,  and  the  tribe  of  Levi,  to  Moses  in  the  des- 
ert, with  the  twelve  tribes  encamped  about  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  since  I  have  been  ill 
I  have  thought  much  on  the  political  tendencies 
which  myself  I  have  done  not  a  little  to  advance. 
I  have  reflected  on  the  manner  and  consequen- 
ces of  some  of  our  successes,  as  reformers.  I 
have  read  the  history  of  the  Roman  empire,  and 
I  have  studied  carefully  the  history  of  France. 
And  more  and  more  I  think  it  essential  in  a 
statesman,  that  there  should  be  a  humble  rec- 
ognition of  Providence  in  national  history,  and 
a  strong  feeling  of  man's  spiritual  relations 
towards  God  and  another  world.  Equality  and 
brotherhood!  have  the  French  people  been  cry- 
ing these  seventy  years.  They  have  enacted 
brotherhood  by  the  will  of  the  republic,  and  they 
have  engraved  it  on  every  public  building.  But 
all  that  is  meant  is  a  brotherhood  in  dust  sim- 
ply,—  the  equality  of  creatures  that  are  merely 
mortal;  and  so  it  does  not  last,  and  cannot." 

"  No,  no !  Mr.  Coke.  The  ways  of  the  world 
are  not  to  be  straightened  simply  as  between 
man  and  man,  but  only  when  looked  at  as  lying 
in  the  direction  of  God." 


A    TALE.  253 

"  That  is  the  truth.  And  it  is  the  great  moral 
of  all  history." 

The  minister  continued :  "  An  undevout  philan- 
thropist may  have  a  successful  career  among  men, 
as  a  popular  orator.  And  a  parliament  may  de- 
bate by  what  legislative  contrivances  peace  may 
be  best  maintained  among  the  different  classes  of 
society.  But  for  harmonizing  discordant  men, 
there  is  what  is  more  effective  than  the  oratory 
of  mere  benevolence,  or  the  cunning  of  shrewd 
legislators.  And  it  is  this,  —  simply  this,  —  from 
a  man  of  intellect  or  genius,  one  devout  thought 
uttered  aloud." 


254  THORPE, 


XXXI. 

"  WELL,  Mr.  Percy,"  said  the  minister,  as  he 
stirred  the  fire,  "  it  is  a  frosty  evening,  and  so  the 
fire  burns  blue,  and  is  very  comfortable  to  feel 
and  look  at." 

"  My  uncle  to-day  has  been  expressing  to  me 
his  great  admiration  of  you,  and  says  he  owes 
you  much  gratitude." 

"  He  is  a  gentleman  in  whom  I  have  a  great 
interest.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well, 
Mr.  Percy.  But  I  had  hoped  you  would  have 
come  a  little  sooner." 

"  On  my  way  here  I  called  at  Mrs.  Heywood's, 
and  while  I  was  in  conversation  time  went  faster 
than  I  was  aware  of." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  For  I  am  not 
well ;  and  yet  I  am  not  ill.  All  day  I  have  been 
unable  to  fix  my  mind  on  any  subject  of  thought. 
And  now  this  evening  I  am  just  in  that  state 
when  a  companion  is  most  agreeable." 


A    TALE.  255 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Percy,  "  I  cannot  but  admire 
this  library  of  yours.  As  a  room  it  is  not  too 
large  nor  too  small.  And  from  the  windows  you 
have  such  a  fine  view  of  the  country  in  the  day- 
time !  " 

The  minister  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  said, 
"  And  at  night,  when  there  is  stillness  all  about 
me,  my  library  is  the  wonderful  gateway  by 
which  I  am  admitted  into  the  Past.  Books, 
books !  To  handle,  they  are  paper  and  paste  ; 
but  to  read,  they  are  magic,  thought,  sight.  O, 
by  the  help  of  these  books  what  wonderful  things 
I  can  do,  especially  at  night !  I  can  go  back  in- 
to past  ages.  I  can  walk  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tiber,  while  Caesar  floats  down  it  in  his  barge. 
I  can  go  to  the  Colosseum,  and  find  it  roofed  in 
and  filled  with  tens  of  thousands  of  Romans  ; 
and  I  can  enter  the  hall  of  a  Tusculan  villa,  and 
listen  to  Cicero  talking  with  his  friends.  At  Ath- 
ens I  can  sit  in  the  amphitheatre,  while  some 
comedy  of  Aristophanes  is  acted  ;  or  I  can  go  in- 
to the  garden  of  the  Academy,  and  hear  great 
men  talk  their  wisest.  In  Egypt  I  can  see  ruin- 
ous cities  standing  in  their  early  strength,  and 
thronged  with  inhabitants,  busy,  lively,  and  exces- 
sively idolatrous ;  and  I  can  see  the  priests,  robed 
in  linen,  walk  between  rows  of  obelisks  and 


256 


THORPE, 


sphinxes,  and  past  inscriptions,  such  as  only  they 
themselves  can  read  ;  and  I  can  see  them  in  the 
temple  make  a  religion  of  feeding  the  sacred  an- 
imals, an  ox,  a  dog,  a  cat,  a  crocodile,  an  ichneu- 
mon. Or  I  can  walk  the  streets  of  Nineveh 
along  with  the  prophet  Jonah,  and  see  the  vast- 
ness  and  the  temples  which  he  saw,  and  also  the 
winged  lions,  and  the  wheels  within  wheels,  of 
which  Ezekiel  speaks.  Or  I  can  become  a  guest 
in  Scandinavian  homes,  and  hear  the  sea-kings 
tell  of  their  fights,  or  some  woman  repeat  a  Saga 
of  the  old  times,  or  some  poet  recite  his  fresh 
verses." 

"  So  often,"  said  Percy,  "  they  are  the  com- 
mon things  of  life,  which  are  the  most  wonderful. 
And  books  are  the  simple  means  by  which  God 
lends  us  a  glance  that  has  in  it  something  of  the 
wonder  of  his  own  omnipresence." 

"  The  Egyptians  deified  some  animals,  or  at 
least  held  them  as  symbols,  which  they  might 
use  in  the  worship  of  the  Divine.  Lately,  I  have 
been  thinking  on  the  subject  of  animal  life.  Of- 
ten now  I  think  we  men  are  reluctant  to  allow 
to  the  brutes  the  properties  which  really  belong 
to  them.  We  are  slow  to  admit  in  them  the 
existence  of  any  semblance  of  reason }  as  though 
we  were  afraid  it  might  vanish,  —  the  distinction 


A    TALE.  257 

between  us  and  them ;  and  so  we  might  possibly 
have  to  walk  among  them  consciously  discrowned, 
and  lords  of  them  by  right  only,  and  not  by  might.. 
Justus  Lipsius,  in  his  eulogy,  says  that  he  has 
made  out  the  elephant  to  be  human,  and  endowed 
with  discourse,  reason,  passions,  and  virtues.  And 
though  evidently  what  he  says  is  exaggeration, 
yet  it  is  unpleasant  to  read." 

"  Looked  at  from  the  doctrine  of  materialism, 
and  indeed  from  some  positions  in  life,  men  and 
brutes,  as  compared  together,  do  not  always  sug- 
gest the  pleasantest  thoughts  about  our  human 
nature.  But  there  is  an  error  in  the  mode  in 
which  often  our  human  life  is  estimated.  For 
in  the  common  way  of  regarding  him,  man  is 
only  an  imperfect  brute.  Look  at  a  mob  of  men 
and  women ;  or  listen  to  twenty  men,  while  they 
are  talking  and  drinking  and  smoking  at  an  inn  ; 
and  then  say  whether  these  human  creatures  are 
so  very  much  better  than  a  herd  of  deer,  grazing 
together  so  gently,  and  going  in  and  out  among 
the  trees  so  beautifully,  and  all  the  while  breath- 
ing the  fresh  air  so  sweetly.  Simply  to  look  at, 
thousands  and  millions  of  men,  and  indeed  most 
persons,  had  better  have  been  almost  any  animals 
than  what  they  are.  O,  to  sit  in  the  woods,  on 
a  summer's  day,  and  to  hear  the  wood-pigeons 

17 


258 


THORPE, 


coo !  What  peace  there  feels  to  be  in  the  tree- 
tops  !  Doves  have  a  way  of  life  to  live  by.  And 
from  that  is  their  peacefulness.  And  if  we  men 
were  bound  to  a  way  of  life,  we  should  be  as 
happy  as  the  doves  are.  But  we  are  not  so 
bound;  we  are  free.  And  our  sins,  —  they  are 
the  aberrations  of  a  nature  left  free  in  life,  —  free 
with  a  freedom  which  is  awful  to  think  of, 
because  it  is  accountable  in  some  way,  some- 
where. And  our  restlessness,  our  craving,  our 
discontent,  —  this  longing,  which  religion  does 
not  extinguish,  but  only  consecrates,  —  what  is  it  ? 
It  is  the  soul  which  is  in  us,  unable  to  quite  do- 
mesticate itself  in  this  earth,  even  in  the  happiest 
circumstances." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Percy,  it  is  as  you  say.  And  what 
is  most  distinctive  in  man  is  not  so  much  in  any 
one  faculty  of  his  nature,  as  in  the  freedom  of  it. 
But  yet  you  would  not  allow  that  they  are  right, 
who  would  impugn  the  preeminence  of  man  above 
the  beasts,  even  with  regard  only  to  the  outward 
manifestation  of  his  faculties." 

"  No,  certainly  I  should  not.  O,  sometimes  it 
is  asked,  Is  man's  sagacity  so  much  greater  than 
an  elephant's  ?  or  his  constructive  skill  so  much 
superior  to  a  bee's  ?  And  then  is  not  a  dog  teach- 
able ?  And  sometimes  plainly  does  not  he  reason  ? 


A    TALE.  259 

And  in  a  rookery,  is  not  there  social  order,  and 
even  a  sense  of  justice  ?  Be  it  so ;  and  let  all 
human  powers  be  found,  one  in  one  beast,  and 
another  in  another.  Yet  a  man  is  not  the  less  a 
man  for  that,  any  more  than  the  earth  is  the  less 
divinely  shaped,  because  the  nest  of  a  piefinch  is 
as  round  as  a  circle  mathematically  made.  And 
after  all  that  can  be  said,  if  there  is  reason  in 
animals  as  well  as  in  men,  there  is  so  with  a  dif- 
ference. It  is  very  certain,  that,  in  some  sense, 
the  diamond  and  coal  are  the  same  thing ;  yet 
still,  some  way  or  other,  the  diamond  is  diamond, 
and  coal  is  not  it,  and  cannot  be." 

"  Usually  we  think  of  animals  almost  only  for 
what  they  are  to  ourselves.  But  this  is  unsatis- 
factory. For  though  some  animals  are  service- 
able to  man,  yet  most  of  them  are  not.  And  so 
I  often  feel  very  strangely  about  them.  They 
are  fellow-mortals  with  us.  And  why  are  they 
what  they  are?  If  they  live  only  to  grow  old 
and  die,  why  are  they  alive  at  all?  Some  dogs 
and  some  horses,  I  have  fancied,  have  known  of 
their  humble  state,  and  felt  the  lowliness  of  it. 
And  hardly  any  animal  cries  are  altogether  joy- 
ful, but  a  little  sad.  And  there  is  something  of  a 
pensive  appearance  in  the  movements  of  most 
beasts  and  birds." 


260 


THORPE, 


"  To  me,"  answered  Percy,  "  it  is  as  though 
the  brutes  could  not  have  been  any  thing  better 
than  they  are,  or  they  would  have  been  created 
so.  For  there  is  not  a  bird,  which  myself  I  could 
not  have  let  be  an  angel,  nor  a  dog,  but  I  would 
have  be  human.  A  Newfoundland  dog  is  a 
strange  creature  to  be  living  in  a  planet  so  "wisely 
made  as  our  earth  is.  For  why  should  not  it  have 
been  humanly  shaped,  —  why,  and  again  why  ? 
It  was  not  to  be  so :  and  therefore  it  could  not 
be.  And  what  occasioned  that  creature  to  be 
only  a  dog,  has  made  me  be  what  I  am.  Per- 
haps if  that  dog  could  have  been  rational,  my- 
self I  might  have  been  more  than  human.  And 
could  any  other  creature  anywhere  have  been  less 
limited  than  it  is,  then  perhaps  my  own  nature 
might  have  been  larger.  If  the  instinct  of  the 
dog  could  have  been  reason,  then  perhaps  the 
lion  and  the  lamb  might  have  lain  down  to- 
gether, and  man  might  have  talked  with  angels. 
Ah,  yes,  I  am  what  I  am,  perhaps  because  the 
horse  and  the  dog  are  what  they  are.  My  own  na- 
ture is  so  very  poor  to  what  it  might  have  been. 
And  this  I  am  reminded  of,  whenever  I  look 
thoughtfully  at  the  cat  on  the  hearth,  at  oxen  in 
the  fields,  or  at  birds  searching  the  hedges  for 
food,  or  at  May-flies  fluttering  about  for  an  hour 


A    TALE.  261 

or  two  at  sunset,  and  then  dying.  There  is 
nothing  but  hints  to  that  this  is  a  world  in  which 
the  Creator  withholds  himself,  —  restrains  his  al- 
mightiness.  And,  —  as  I  often  say  to  myself, — 

0  the  mystery,  the  wonder   of   it!      And  O  the 
awfulness  of  it ! " 

"  I  can  tell  why  a  man  ought  to  suffer ;  but  I 
do  not  know  why  a  brute  should.  An  animal 
walking  about  in  pain  distresses  me,  and  some- 
times appalls  me.  But  I  say  to  myself,  that  there 
are  more  good  and  wise  things  intended  in  the 
universe  than  I  know  of;  and  that,  no  doubt, 
the  cries  of  poor  animals  enter  into  the  ears-  of 
the  Lord  of  Sabaoth,  as  well  as  the  cries  of 
oppressed  laborers." 

"  My  theology,"  said  Percy,  "  was  once  of 
such  a  nature,  as  quite  to  quail  at  animal  suf- 
fering. And  I  used  to  try  not  to  think  of  it. 
But  now  there  is  nothing  in  nature  I  should 
not  be  willing  to  know  of.  Though  I  am  still 
sensible  of  the  mystery  which  there  is  in  crea- 
tion. Lambs  frisking  in  the  grass  are  a  pretty 
sight,  and  they  make  one  say,  "  O,  how  good 
all  things  are ! "  But  it  is  not  so  pleasant  to 
think  of  a  sheep  worried  in  the  night  by  a  dog. 

1  shall   never   forget    how    I   felt  when    a   friend 
told   me   of  his   having   seen   in  the  Atlantic   an 


262  THORPE, 

iceberg  with  a  bear  upon  it.  The  poor  bear  was 
famishing,  and  was  drifting  away  to  the  south 
and  a  wretched  death.  When  I  was  told  of  the 
poor  animal's  cries,  it  was  as  though  I  had  heard 
for  the  first  time  of  the  whole  creation's  groaning 
and  travailing  in  pain  together.  In  this  earth  it 
is  not  we  ourselves  only,  we  men,  that  suffer,  but 
also  all  other  creatures.  It  is  a  suffering  world 
in  which  we  dwell.  But  certainly  it  is  for  some 
divine  purpose  that  we  are  in  it.  All  creation 
suffering  about  us !  Does  it  sadden  us  to  think 
of?  .  It  does;  and  no  doubt  it  was  meant  to 
do  •  so ;  but  also  to  affect  us  with  a  sorrow  not 
hopeless  or  passionate,  but  solemn  and  sublime 
almost." 

1  "  Mr.  Percy,  it  is  by  such  subjects  as  this  on 
which  we  have  now  been  talking  that  I  feel  so 
gratefully  what  it  is  to  be  a  Christian.  This  sub- 
ject of  animal  suffering,  —  it  is  darkness  into 
which  revelation  does  not  reach.  And  in  it  I 
walk  utterly  helpless.  And  so  when  I  return  to 
Christ  I  believe  in  him  all  the  more  willingly  and 
implicitly  for  knowing  of  that  moral  night  in 
which  all  those  things  lie,  towards  which  he  does 
not  look.  However,  I  think  we  miss  of  some  right 
feeling  about  the  brute  creation,  by  regarding  ani- 
mals simply  as  objects  useful  or  useless  to  our- 


A    TALE.  263 

selves.  Use,  —  what  use  are  they  of?  In  us, 
what  arrogance  it  is  to  be  asking  this  about  any 
living  thing  whatever.  Gnats  in  the  sunshine, — 
of  what  use  are  they  ?  Now  is  any  man  the 
maker  of  them,  that  we  should  criticize  them  after 
the  same  manner  that  we  do  ploughs  or  mills? 
O,  but  if  other  creatures  are  made  without  a  pur- 
pose, then  perhaps  we  ourselves  are.  But  is  it 
right  for  us  to  feel  bewildered  in  our  little  minds, 
because  every  thing  about  us  does  not  tell  us  of 
what  use  it  is.  Usefulness  is  no  standard  by 
which  for  us  to  be  testing  creatures.  We  men, 
we  ourselves,  —  of  what  use  are  we  in  the  uni- 
verse of  God  ?  None,  none  at  all ;  any  more 
than  the  sparrow  in  the  garden,  or  the  worm  in 
the  ground,  or  the  grub  coiled  up  in  a  leaf  on  the 
bush.  But  let  them  make  me  feel  this  way,  this 
humble  way;  and  then  to  me  at  least  they  are 
useful, —  every  living  thing,  the  cow  in  the  pas- 
ture, the  bird  in  the  air,  and  the  worm  underneath 
the  sod." 

"  They  are  creatures  of  God,  like  ourselves," 
said  Percy,  "  and  so  are  fellow-creatures  of  ours. 
It  is  a  lowly  fellowship  which  we  have  with 
them,  very.  But  it  is  good  for  us  to  feel  it. 
And  I  think  as  you  do,  that  about  birds  and 
animals  there  are  some  right  ways  of  thinking 


264  THORPE, 

and  feeling  of  which  we  are  not  possessed.  Ani- 
malcules, so  small  as  for  there  to  be  millions  of 
them  in  a  drop  of  water,  —  minnows,  that  live 
and  die'  in  the  same  little  nook  of  a  stream,  — 
moths,  that  flutter  about  in  a  garden  for  a  few 
hours  of  a  summer  night, — insects,  at  home  in 
the  cup  of  a  flower,  —  wild  bees,  that  work  so 
loyally,  and  winter  together  so  snugly  in  banks 
and  hollow  trees,  —  ants,  in  their  underground 
chambers,  —  living  things,  in  the  depths  of  the 
sea,  —  about  these,  and  all  other  creatures  of 
God,  there  is  a  way  of  feeling  which  would 
be  good  for  us,  religiously  good,  if  only  we  knew 
what  it  was.  And  perhaps  some  time  we  shall 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  it,  when  we  feel  more 
humbly  than  we  do,  and  perhaps  are  more  tender 
than  we  are  yet  towards  the  animal  creation." 

"  St.  Ambrose,"  said  the  minister,  "  would  teach 
us  that  in  animals  we  ought  to  see  painted  im- 
ages of  most  of  the  virtues,  set  forth  by  God  to 
remind  us  of  our  duties.  And  Philip  Melanc- 
thon  says,  that  in  what  is  right  and  what  is 
base,  in  what  is  useful  and  what  is  not,  and  in 
what  is  proper,  the  life  of  the  ant  instructs  us 
better  than  Chrysippus  or  Grantor,  the  philoso- 
phers. Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,  says  one 
of  the  Proverbs.  And  I  think  for  wisdom  and 


A    TALE.  265 

for  pleasure  we  might  look  to  the  creatures 
about  us  oftener  than  we  do.  A  great,  very  great 
pleasure  some  of  them  are,  sometimes,  for  me 
to  look  at."  • 

"  I  remember,  sir,  the  singular,  the  very  pecu- 
liar delight,  which  I  once  had  so.  One  May  even- 
ing I  sat  in  a  garden,  seeing  how  beautiful 
all  things  were,  and  breathing  the  warm,  sweet 
air.  The  beetle  droned  in  the  twilight ;  and  some 
of  the  latest  birds  were  still  singing  about,  —  the 
hedge-sparrow  and  the  thrush.  And  I  felt  how 
sweet  a  thing  it  is,  sometimes,  only  to  live  and 
breathe  and  listen.  Then  a  bat  flittered  by  me, 
close  by  me.  And  when  I  looked  up,  I  saw 
three  bats  flying  about  a  blossoming  plum-tree. 
And  they  flittered  among  the  white  branches  so 
prettily,  clinging  to  them  every  now  and  then. 
And  while  I  was  looking  up  at  them,  I  clasped 
my  hands  and  said,  '  O  blessed  little  creatures ! 
And  God  loves  you  too,  and  is  the  life  of  you.' 
And  myself,  just  then,  I  loved  them ;  not  as  I  love 
knowledge,  or  beauty,  or  men,  but  another  way, 
a  new,  strange  way.  And  I  think  it  may  have 
been  something  of  that  way  by  which  God  is 
happy  in  all  things." 

"  Yes,"  the  minister  said,  "  and  in  that  sympa- 
thetic mood  of  yours  we  men  should  be  differ- 


266  THORPE, 

ent  objects  than  what  we  are  to  one  another. 
Members  one  of  another,  —  down  through  those 
words  from  Paul's  heart,  what  an  everlasting 
stream  «>f  sympathy  there  flows !  What  a  foun- 
tain of  meaning  there  is  in  them!  Do  not  you 
think  so?  Have  you  ever  happened  to  reflect 
on  them  ?  There  are  no  such  words  anywhere 
out  of  the  Bible.  In  the  Church,  and  indeed  al- 
most in  any  body  of  men,  if  one  member  suffer, 
all  the  members  suffer  with  it." 

"  Or  if  they  do  not,  they  ought  to,  through 
sympathy.  It  is  the  way  of  nature,  it  is  an  or- 
dinance of  God  for  the  good  of  our  souls.  All 
sufferers  suffer  for  me;  at  least  all  do  that  I 
know  of.  In  every  weak  man  it  is  hinted  to 
me,  '  This  is  what  thou  wouldst  thyself  be,  but 
for  the  greater  strength  of  God  which  is  in 
thee.'  In  the  darkness  of  a  blind  man,  I  know 
to  what  a  sad  misfortune  I  have  myself  been 
created  liable.  In  the  outcries  of  an  epileptic,  I 
can  hear  it  said  to  me,  '  This  dreadful  thing  dost 
thou  escape  only  by  the  gtace  of  God.'  And 
when  slowly,  slowly  a  man  is  dying,  and  I  see 
it,  then  I  feel  in  it  a  solemn  intimation,  '  This 
way,  this  very  way,  thyself  thou  art  going,  only 
perhaps  a  little  more  slowly.'  And  thus  every 
dying  man  and  every  sufferer  is  a  sight  to  solem- 


A    TALE.  267 

nize  me ;  and  he  makes  me  feel  how  serious  is 
that  inner  world  from  which  my  soul  is  fed." 

"  That  inner  world !  Our  outer  world%would 
be  simple  enough,  were  it  not  for  the  mystery  of 
that  inner  world.  This  morning  I  read  in  Pin- 
dar a  few  words  which  sounded  so  strange,  so  ex- 
actly heathenish.  He  says  that  we  ought  to  seek 
from  the  gods  things  suitable  to  mortal  minds, 
as  we  know  what  our  nature  is  for  the  present. 
And  then  he  exclaims,  '  O  my  soul,  do  not  as- 
pire after  an  immortal  life;  but  apply  to  the  la- 
bors for  which  you  are  qualified.'  How  strangely 
it  sounds;  does  not  it?  And  as  though  really, 
and  in  itself,  he  did  know  what  life  is,  any 
more  than  what  death  is,  or  immortality ! " 

"  Men  often  feel  like  Pindar  still,"  said  Percy, 
"  and  indeed  we  all  do  a  little,  at  times.  We 
think  that  death  looses  us  from  our  old  certain- 
ties. But  those  old  certainties  are  merely  our  ig- 
norance. I  know  all  about  my  house  and  gar- 
den ;  and  I  know  all  the  lanes  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  how  they  lead ;  and  I  know  under 
what  hedge  the  first  cowslip  blossoms ;  and  in 
what  bank  to  look  for  the  earliest  violets.  And 
I  know  the  brook,  and  every  winding  of  it,  and 
the  still  places  in  it,  where  the  water-flies  are. 
All  about  I  can  tell  how  the  fields  lie  toward  one 


268  THORPE, 

another;  and  I  can  tell  how  the  parish  lies  in 
regard  to  all  the  adjacent  parishes.  And  from 
all  thjs  I  fancy  that  I  know  where  I  live,  — 
whereabouts.  But  really  what  is  this  knowl- 
edge? It  is  almost  nothing.  For  what  I  live 
on  is  a  spot  amid  infinite  space.  And  in  infin- 
ity I  cannot  tell  whereabouts  I  am.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  am  near  where  the  first  world 
was  made,  or  far  from  it.  I  do  not  know  wheth- 
er I  am  comparatively  near  the  outside,  or  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  universe.  My  own  neighbor- 
hood, I  feel  at  home  in  it,  so  thoroughly;  and  I 
know  every  side  of  it,  —  north,  south,  east,  and 
west.  And  I  never  think  how  this  familiar 
neighborhood  belongs  to  infinity,  and  so  has 
really  no  north,  or  south,  or  east,  or  west.  And 
out  of  a  million  directions,  I  do  not  know  which 
would  be  the  shortest  by  which  to  get  outside 
of  the  stars  that  shine  around  and  above  and  be- 
neath us.  Ah,  when  I  think  that  I  know  where- 
abouts I  am  in  the  universe,  really  it  is  only  as 
the  insect  feels  itself  at  home  in  the  cup  of  a 
flower,  knowing  nothing  of  the  plant  itself,  nor 
of  the  ground  it  grows  in." 

"  Insects  in  a  flower,  with  the  stalk  rotting  be- 
neath, or  with  a  worm  at  the  root!  —  that  is 
what  we  are.  We  build,  and  reap,  and  hoard; 


A    TALE.  269 

we  covet  more  and  more  land  to  walk  on,  and 
call  our  own ;  but  never  think  that  somewhere 
it  must  break  in,  and  we  fall  through  and  find 
our  grave.  I  wonder  how  it  would  be,  if  never 
we  had  any  expectation  of  death,  if  we  came  up 
against  death  bb'ndly  as  the  beasts  do.  I  think 
then  we  should  be  different  creatures  from  what 
we  are  now,  Mr.  Percy." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  the  end  of  life  which  makes  life 
be  so  serious.  To-day  I  can  lose,  and  to-morrow 
I  can  trifle  away,  but  not  my  life,  not  all  life, 
not  the  whole  of  it.  O,  at  the  end  of  existence, 
I  could  wish  to  have  realized  something  spirit- 
ual,—  some  abiding  thing, —  something  in  its 
results  which  will  last  longer  than  a  day's  pleas- 
ure, or  a  year's  manual  work.  Pots  and  pans, 
and  most  of  them  worn  out,  —  if  a  tinman  can 
point  only  to  these,  as  the  sum  of  his  life,  his 
thought  and  care  and  toil,  then  it  is  a  poor 
thing.  And  it  is  a  poor  thing  if  a  farmer  has  to 
say  at  the  last,  '  These  fields  I  have  ploughed  a 
hundred  times  over;  and  of  the  life  I  have  lived, 
all  the  effect,  the  whole  surviving  effect  to  me, 
is  in  the  good  state  of  the  soil.'  And  a  very 
sad  thing  it  is,  if  an  old  man  holds  a  purse  of 
gold,  and  has  to  think  to  himself,  '  In  this  purse 
is  the  essence  of  my  life.  These  yellow  coins 


270  THORPE, 

are  all  by  which  in  any  way  I  am  the  better 
for  the  struggles  and  anxieties  of  my  lifetime.  I 
have  worked  and  I  have  suffered  much.  And 
now  from  it  all  I  am  this  much  the  better,  this 
purse  of  money.'  A  purse  of  which  death  is 
just  going  to  make  him  let  go ! " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  minister.  "  And  then  to 
think  that  it  is  out  of  our  thoughts  and  actions 
that  there  are  twisting  what  will  be  the  leading- 
strings  of  posterity!  Mystery.  Only  a  little 
way,  and  then  every  thing  runs  into  it.  Respon- 
sibility, —  there  is  hardly  any  thing  but  makes 
us  feel  it.  The  past,  —  it  is  for  ever  and  ever 
coming  over  and  over  again.  And  the  more 
thoughtfully  we  live,  the  more  conscious  do  we 
become  of  powers  which  our  souls  live  by,  mys- 
terious, awful.  How,  by  what  means  is  it,  that 
we  think  or  remember  ?  A  dream,  —  how  won- 
derful it  is  for  its  accurate  presentation  of  things, 
and  almost  always  for  its  vividness,  which  is 
commonly  more  intense  even  than  that  of  our 
waking  sensations." 

"  I  had  quite  forgotten,"  said  Percy,  "  what  a 
great  loss  I  had  when  my  mother  died.  But  I 
know  now  what  it  must  have  been.  For  the 
other  night  I  dreamed  I  saw  my  mother.  She 
was  ill,  and  looked  so.  And  I  thought  to  myself, 


A    TALE.  271 

'  Certainly,  this  is  my  mother ;  still  her  look  is 
not  what  I  thought  it  had  been ;  and  yet  it  is  of 
the  same  expression  as  my  aunt's.  I  thought 
you  had  been  more  beautiful;  and  yet  you  are, — 
O,  yes,  you  are  very  beautiful.'  Then  my  mother 
smiled,  as  though  she  knew  what  I  was  think- 
ing. And  she  said,  '  You  know,  Percy,  I  have 
been  ill  a  long  while.'  And  I  said,  '  O  my 
poor  mother,  you  are  very  ill.'  And  I  bent  my 
head  towards  her  neck.  But  O  the  feeling  with 
which  I  did  so!  I  awoke  with  it.  All  through 
the  next  day  I  felt  it,  —  so  strange,  so  sweet. 
And  it  did  not  quite  fade  from  me  for  nearly  a 
week." 

"  A  beautiful,  happy  dream !  I  wish  I  could 
have  such  a  vision  of  my  mother.  She  died 
when  I  was  only  ten  years  of  age  ;  and  yet  still 
at  times  I  seem  to  feel  lingering  on  my  nerves 
the  dear  rapture  of  her  embrace.  Myself  I  sel- 
dom have  a  dream.  And  perhaps  on  that  ac- 
count such  a  vision  is  to  me  the  more  curious. 
However,  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  way  in  which 
the  ancients  were  impressed  by  dreams.  For 
they  seem  to  me  gateways,  —  perhaps  very  fan- 
tastic sometimes,  —  but  yet  openings,  by  which 
there  reach  us  glimpses  of  a  mode  of  life  other 
than  this  of  the  five  senses." 


272  THORPE, 

"  Why,  how  late  it  is  ! "  said  Percy,  as  he  looked 
at  his  watch.  "  And  how  discursive  our  conver- 
sation has  been,  though  not  unpleasant,  and  I 
hope  not  unprofitable.  I  have  felt  myself  borne 
along  I  hardly  know  how,  out  of  one  field  of 
thought  into  another,  and  up  heights  of  specu- 
lation, and  every  now  and  then  into  some  shady 
place,  and  the  presence  of  some  ancient  father, 
grave,  and  earnest,  and  decisive." 

"  It  has  been  said  by  some  one,  perhaps  in  ref- 
erence to  something  like  what  you  have  just  ex- 
pressed, that  the  soul  becomes  philosophical  of 
her  own  accord,  and  she  wonders  at  her  own 
thoughtfulness,  and  the  richness  of  her  reveries 
afford  her  delight,  and  then  she  "ascends  from  her- 
self to  her  Creator,  from  earth  to  heaven.  This 
evening  we  have  been  talking  on  a  very  interest- 
ing subject.  And,  Mr.  Percy,  I  like  your  remark 
on  the  freedom  of  the  human  will.  And  myself, 
I  would  say  this,  —  that  to  me  it  is  a  great 
token  of  my  heavenly  relationship  to  be  some- 
times —  as  the  beasts  never  are  —  lost  in  life, 
bewildered  in  thought,  and  in  want  of  guidance 
from  on  high." 


A    TALE.  273 


XXXII. 

AT  the  Parsonage  the  housekeeper  opened  the 
study  door.  The  candles  were  lighted.  And  for 
a  little  while  she  waited  as  though  for  some  mo- 
ment when  the  minister  might  relax  his  attention 
to  a  large  volume  on  the  table,  over  which  he 
was  bending.  At  last  she  said,  "  Please,  sir,  in 
the  pump  the  bucket  does  not  draw  well.  Penny 
wise  and  pound  foolish,  they  say  ;  and  so  it  had 
better  be  attended  to  at  once.  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  know  what  we  should  do  without  water. 
And  so  I  think  it  is  a  great  blessing.  Do  not 
you  think  it  is,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  a  great  blessing." 

"  A    very   great    blessing,    sir." 

The  minister  looked  up  from  his  book,  and  said, 
"  Yes,  very,  very  great.  For  without  it  there  could 
be  neither  cider  nor  rainbows." 

Mrs.    Satterthwaite    looked    a    little    mystified, 

18 


274  THORPE, 

and  then  said,  "  Please,  sir,  I  think  that  Mr.  Percy 
Coke  is  making  love  to  Alice  Heywood." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  minister  quickly.  "  But  it 
can  hardly  be  so,  I  think." 

"But,  sir,  it  is  so,  I  am  almost  sure." 

"  O,  you  must  be  mistaken,  surely.  For,  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite,  myself  I  have  never  seen  any  signs 
whatever  of  what  you  mention." 

"  That  may  be,  sir.  But  years  know  more 
than  books.  And  besides,  I  have  been  young  my- 
self. And  though  I  have  never  had  much  educa- 
tion, yet  I  can  tell,  for  being  right  in  some  things, 
that  experience  without  learning  is  better  than 
learning  without  experience." 

"  Alice  Heywood !  Let  me  think.  Can  it  be  ? 
And  yet  it  must.  She  is  nineteen,  twenty " 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  true  that  time  and  tide  stay 
for  no  man." 

"  And  then  Mr.  Percy  is  an  honorable,  good 
man." 

"  Yes,  sir,  so  he  is.  It  being,  as  they  say, 
thai  a  man  like  a  watch  is  to  be  valued  for  his 
goings." 

"  O,  but  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  you  must  be  mis- 
taken, certainly.  Because  from  what  he  is  think- 
ing of,  —  Mr.  Percy  Coke,  —  why  should  he  — 
why  should  he  be  doing  as  you  say?" 


A    TALE. 

"  As  to  what  he  is  thinking  of,  I  cannot  tell. 
But  as  the  old  proverb  is,  a  man  would  not  be 
alone  even  in  paradise." 

"  And  now,"  said  the  minister,  "  tell  me  what 
it  is  you  have  heard." 

"  Nothing.  That  is,  I  have  not  heard  any 
thing ;  because  I  have  not  spoken  with  any  body 
about  it." 

"  Well  now,  I  was  sure  it  was  all  fancy." 

"  O,"  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  impatiently, 
"  words  are  but  wind  ;  but  seeing  is  believing. 
And  though,  to  be  sure,  it  was  not  much  that  I 
saw,  yet  you  may  know  by  a  penny  how  a  shil- 
ling spends.  This  afternoon  I  went  to  Mrs.  Hey- 
wood's " 

"  But  this  afternoon  Mr.  Percy  was  to  have 
ridden  over  to  Drayton." 

"  But  beauty  draws  more  than  oxen,  they  say. 
And  this  afternoon  he  was  at  Mrs.  Heywood's. 
He  must  have  been,  for  I  saw  him  going  away 
from  there.  I  went  in  at  the  parlor  door  to 
speak  to  Miss  Alice ;  and  though  she  was  alone, 
she  did  not  notice  me.  But  though  she  was  sit- 
ting by  the  fire,  she  was  looking  towards  the  win- 
dow. And  through  the  window,  down  the  alley, 
I  saw  Mr.  Percy  Coke  going  out  at  the  garden 
gate.  Love  is  the  loadstone  of  love.  And  from 


276 


THORPE, 


the  way  Miss  Alice  looked,  happy,  and  yet  very 
serious,  I  can  tell  what  she  was  thinking  of.  And 
I  could  hardly  help  standing  still  to  loot  at  her; 
for  she  was  such  a  beautiful  sight." 

"  Was  that  all,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  ?  But  surely 
in  a  mere  look  you  may  have  been  so  very  easily 
mistaken." 

"  Please,  sir,  you  can  read  Hebrew  by  the  look 
of  it ;  and  I  cannot.  But  there  are  some  things 
which  I  am  able  to  read  by  the  look,  because 
I  have  learned  how.  And  then,  besides,  look- 
ers on  see  more  than  players.  And  so  I  am 
sure  I  am  fight.  Well,  when  Miss  Alice  saw 
me,  she  started  and  blushed.  And  then  at  once 
she  began  to  talk  to  me,  as  though  she  had  not 
blushed  or  started  at  all.  But  though  the  cat 
winked,  she  was  not  blind.  And  I  said  to  my- 
self, that  with  foxes  one  must  play  the  fox.  And 
so  I  did  not  let  her  know  that  I  had  noticed  her 
blush." 

"  And,"  said  the  minister,  "  I  hope  you  will  not 
let  any  one  else  know." 

"  Of  course  not,  sir.  But  I  thought  it  was 
right  to  tell  you  what  I  had  noticed.  Miss  Alice 
is  a  very  kind,  sweet,  good,  religious  young  lady; 
and  Mr.  Percy  is  an  excellent  gentleman.  And 
so  for  once  I  do  hope  the  course  of  true  love  may 


A    TALE.  277 

run  smooth.  Though  I  suppose  it  never  does. 
For  a  man's  best  fortune  or  his  worst  is  a  wife; 
though,  as  they  say  again,  patience  is  a  plaster 
for  all  sores.  And  all  is  well  that  ends  well. 
And  yet,  too,  a  good  wife  is  the  workmanship  of 
a  good  husband." 


278  THORPE 


XXXIII. 

ONE  afternoon  in  November  Martin  May 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  study  in  the  Parson- 
age, and  went  in. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  minister,  "  I 
have  seen  nothing  of  you  for  a  week.  I  wonder 
where  you  have  been." 

"  I  have  been  to  see  the  ruins  of  Kirkstall 
Abbey.  I  stayed  there  two  days.  The  last  day 
I  remained  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  returning  to 
Manchester  with  a  person  I  met  there,  and 
whom  I  had  seen  in  Manchester  several  'times. 
He  was  on  a  visit  at  Kirkstall.  And  I  stayed 
for  him  a  day,  simply  because  he  urged  me.  For 
indeed,  besides  his  urgency,  he  had  no  other  per- 
suasive quality.  I  can  say  truly,  that  his  conver- 
sation was  not  very  various  nor  very  exciting. 
He  manifested  an  intense  interest  in  the  cotton 
market,  and  a  thorough  belief  in  his  having  ob- 


A    TALE.  279 

tained  what  he  called  vital  religion.  He  described 
his  religion  so  often  as  being  vital,  that  at  last 
I  asked  him  to  call  it  real  or  spiritual.  But  he 
would  not,  for  he  said  that  those  epithets  were 
but  dead  words,  and  not  at  all  what  he  meant. 
His  name  was  Bamforth.  But  it  is  not  likely 
that  you  should  know  any  thing  of  him.  Why 
I  have  called  just  now  is  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
received  your  note  inviting  me  to  tea  this  even- 
ing. But  I  will  not  stay  now,  for  if  I  did  I 
should  interrupt  you.  And  I  am  going  to  take 
a  walk." 

"  Are  you  ?  Then  walk  with  me.  I  am  going 
in  the  direction  of  the  Holy  Well.  I  am  going 
to  a  funeral.  And,  indeed,  you  may  as  well  go 
with  me.  For  the  friends  there  will  take  your 
attendance  as  a  compliment;  and  the  more  so,  as 
you  are  an  American." 

«  Whose  funeral  is  it  ?  " 

"  Joseph  Halliwell's.  He  was  a  man  of  three- 
score years  and  ten,  and  ten  more.  He  was 
eighty  years  of  age." 

"  A  very  old  man." 

"  Hardly  so.  If  age  means  merely  years,  then 
he  was  old.  But  if  it  means  feebleness,  then  he 
was  not  old.  For  one  month  ago  he  was  a 
happy,  ruddy,  hard-working  man." 


280 


THORPE, 


At  the  cottage  of  the  deceased  man  there  was 
a  great  number  of  persons  inside;  and  outside 
there  was  quite  a  crowd  of  people  sitting  on 
benches.  Besides  his  neighbors  and  acquaint- 
ance, who  were  waiting  to  attend  the  funeral  of 
the  old  man,  there  were  present  quite  a  large 
number  of  his  children  and  grandchildren,  and 
even  his  great-grandchildren. 

Martin  May  was  asked  if  he  would  look  at 
the  old  man  in  his  coffin.  There  had  been  just 
taken  off  his  breast  a  pewter  plate  full  of  salt. 
And  Martin  May  wondered  at  what  the  meaning 
of  it  might  be. 

A  young  woman,  who  was  a  grandchild  of  the 
old  man,  brought  her  little  boy  into  the  room, 
and  held  him  up  to  touch  the  old  man's  head. 
And  the  (jhild  then  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Mother, 
he  does  not  speak.  And  he  does  not  know  that 
I  am  Willie.  And  he  keeps  his  eyes  shut." 

An  old  man  standing  by  said,  "  Poor  thing ! 
he  does  not  know  what  death  is."  And  upon 
this,  in  a  corner  of  the  room  where  she  sat,  the 
aged  widow  began  to  weep  afresh.  But  the  min- 
ister laid  his  hand  upon  the  speaker's  arm,  and 
said,  in  a  deep,  gentle  tone,  "  And  we,  too,  have 
to  become  as  this  little  child,  and  not  to  know 
what  death  is;  because  for  Christians  there  is  no 


A    TALE.  281 

such  thing,  as  is  now  made  manifest  by  the  ap- 
pearing of  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  who  hath 
abolished  death,  and  hath  brought  life  and  im- 
mortality to  light  through  the  Gospel." 

There  were  carried  round  among  all  the  per- 
sons present  trays  full  of  evergreens,  such  as  box 
and  rosemary.  And  of  these  each  person  took 
a  sprig,  and  held  it  in  his  hand.  When  the  fu- 
neral procession  was  formed,  the  minister  and 
Martin  May  walked  in  front  of  the  coffin;  and 
behind  it  there  followed,  two  by  two,  nearly  three 
hundred  persons. 

It  was  one  of  those  still,  silent  days,  of  which 
there  are  a  few  in  November,  when  cobwebs 
in  the  hedges  hang  motionless,  and  when  every 
chirp  of  a  bird  is  heard.  The  funeral  procession 
moved  on  slowly  and  silently.  But  on  approach- 
ing the  chapel,  a  few  of  the  mourners  began  to 
sing.  And  soon,  down  the  whole  length  of  the 
procession,  every  body  was  joining  in  a  funeral 
hymn. 

The  coffin  was  taken  into  the  chapel,  and  laid 
on  a  table  before  the  pulpit.  There  was  a  relig- 
ious service.  And  then  the  coffin  was  taken  out 
into  the  yard.  But  before  it  was  lowered  into 
the  grave,  a  person  approached  and  laid  on  the 
head  of  it  a  circlet  of  flowers. 


282  .  THORPE, 

After  the  body  was  laid  in  the  ground,  and  the 
last  prayer  was  concluded,  every  person  came 
up  to  the  grave  and  dropped  into  it  his  bit  of 
evergreen,  and  so  retired.  While  this  was  being 
done  in  silence,  Martin  May  had  his  attention 
drawn  from  one  gravestone  to  another.  And 
there  came  into  his  mind  some  lines  which  he 
had  read  once  :  — 

"  What  thou  art  reading  o'er  my  bones, 
I  've  often  read  on  other  stones. 
And  others  soon  shall  read  of  thee, 
What  thou  art  reading  now  of  me." 

In  the  evening,  at  tea,  the  minister  said,  "  Here, 
take  one  of  these  cakes,  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  It  is  pretty  good ;  and  it  is  very  small." 

"  It  was  larger  when  your  English  ancestors 
knew  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  To-day !  Tell  me  what  is  to-day.  But  as 
you  have  been  away  during  the  past  week,  per- 
haps you  have  not  heard  any  mention  of  it." 

"  But  to-day,  sir  !     What  is  to  day  ?  " 

"  It  is  Farthing-loaf  Day.  And  you  wonder 
what  that  means.  I  will  tell  you.  A  long  while 
ago,  when  a  farthing  was  perhaps  ten  times  its 
present  value,  there  was  bequeathed  by  some 
person  a  fund,  from  the  annual  interest  of  which 


A    TALE.  283 

there  was  to  be  given  to  everybody  born  in 
Church  Street  a  farthing  loaf.  When  Elizabeth 
was  queen,  or  even  when  Charles  the  First  was 
king,  a  farthing  loaf  was  something  to  handle; 
and  now  it  is  hardly  a  mouthful;  it  is  only  one 
of  these  little  cakes. 

"  But  still  it  is  a  loaf,  and  still  it  is  given,  af- 
ter all  these  ages.  Astonishing!  Farthing-loaf 
Day ! " 

"  And  on  this  day,  too,  for  all  the  household- 
ers in  Church  Street,  from  a  fund,  which  is  only 
of  the  last  century,  there  is  a  supper  of  bread 
and  cheese  and  ale.  The  householders  take  it 
in  turns,  "to  receive  the  yearly  interest  of  the  fund 
and  furnish  the  supper.  And  at  supper,  each  man 
is  directed  to  drink  as  a  toast,  '  Peace  and  good 
neighborhood.'  This  year,  the  entertainment  is 
at  the  house  of  my  friend,  Marmaduke  Wyvil. 
And  I  have  thought  you  might  like  to  see  it." 

"  And  so  I  should,  very  much." 

"  And  what  else  is  to-day,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  do  not.  But  I  shall  certainly  re- 
member it  as  Farthing-loaf  Day." 

"  An  antiquarian  like  you  not  know  the  festival- 
day  of  him  who  would  have  been  your  patron 
saint,  if  you  had  been  a  Catholic ! " 

"Is  this  St.  Martin's  day?" 


284 


THORPE, 


"  Yes.  And  it  has  really  been  a  day  in  what 
used  to  be  called  St.  Martin's  Little  Summer. 
A  little  summer !  And  they  do  really  feel  so,  — 
the  two  or  three  fine  days  which  we  usually 
have  about  the  eleventh  of  this  month." 

"  At  dinner  to-day  we  had  a  goose,  which  my 
host,  the  farmer,  called  a  Martlemas  goose.  I 
wished  to  know  what  it  meant.  But  all  I  could 
learn  was,  that  it  was  a  Martlemas  or  a  Martin- 
mas goose." 

"  In  the  old  Norway  clogs,  as  they  were  called, 
or  wooden  almanacs,  the  day  of  St.  Martin  is 
marked  with  a  goose.  It  is  said  to  have  been 
in  commemoration  of  his  having  been  discov- 
ered by  a  goose,  when  he  had  hid  himself  in 
some  secret  place,  because  of  his  being  unwill- 
ing to  be  made  a  bishop." 

"  And  when  was  that  ?  " 

"  Fifteen  hundred  years  ago,  at  Tours.  Mar- 
tlemas is  one  of  the  days  which  farmers  date 
by,  as  I  dare  say  you  know.  It  used  to  be  a 
day  of  many  pleasant  usages.  And  still  it  is  a 
season  of  some  little  rejoicing.  There  is  an  old 
ballad  on  Martlemas." 

"  O,  do  you  know  it  ?  If  you  do,  I  wish,  sir, 
you  would  repeat  it.  Will  you?" 

Then  the  minister  recited  the  following  lines :  — 


A    TALE. 


285 


"  "When  the  daily  sports  be  done, 
Round  the  market-cross  they  run, 
Prentice  lads  and  gallant  blades, 
Dancing  with  their  gamesome  maids ; 
Till  the  beadle,  stout  and  sour, 
Shakes  his  bell  and  calls  the  hour. 
Then  farewell  lad,  and  farewell  lass, 
To  the  merry  night  of  Martlemas." 

"  And  now,"  said  Martin  May,  "  the  cross  is 
broken.  And  I  suppose  there  is  no  dance  at  all. 
Though  there  is  still  the  beadle,  stout  and  sour." 
"  Yes,  since  this  old  ballad  was  new,  there 
must  have  been  many  and  many  a  change  in 
England  and  in  Thorpe.  In  the  last  verse  there 
is  a  fine  strain  of  feeling." 

"  What !  Is  there  more  of  it  ?  Do  let  me 
hear  it." 

"  I  think  it  is  good,  very  good.  And  there  is 
in  it  a  touch  of  that  pathos  which  is  wisdom. 
Think  of  it  as  being  sung -in  a  circle  of  neigh- 
bors, while  they  sit  round  the  fire,  which  blazes 
up  the  chimney,  a  little  higher  than  usual,  on  ac- 
count of  the  day  : ' — 

'Martlemas  shall  come  again, 
Spite  of  wind  and  snow  and  rain 
But  many  a  strange  thing  must  be  done, 
Many  a  cause  be  lost  and  won, 
Many  a  fool  must  leave  his  pelf, 
Many  a  worldling  cheat  himself, 
And  many  a  marvel  come  to  pass, 
Before  return  of  Martlemas.' " 


286  THORPE, 


XXXIV. 

PERCY  COKE  sat  with  his  uncle  in  the  parlor. 
The  curtains  were  drawn.  On  the  table  the  can- 
dles were  set.  And  the  uncle  and  the  nephew 
sat,  one  on  one  side  of  the  blazing  fire,  and  the 
other  on  the  other.  After  a  long  space  of  silence, 
Percy  Coke  said,  "  Uncle  George,  I  must  leave 
you  to-morrow.  For  this  I  should  be  very  sorry, 
only  that  you  are  now  so  very  much  better  in 
health.  But  I  shall  return  again  soon." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  I  am  returning  to  Chelsea." 

"  What  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  write." 

"  And,  Percy,  if  I  may  ask,  what  else  do  you 
want  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  —  to Nothing." 

"  And  cannot  you  here  both  write  and  do  noth- 
ing?" 


A    TALE. 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  I  wish  to  be  among  my  books." 
"  That  I  can  quite  understand.  But  could 
not  you  send  to  London  for  such  volumes  as 
you  want?  Indeed,  rather  than  lose  your  com- 
pany, I  would  myself  have  all  your  library  brought 
here  to  Thorpe.  And  it  can  be  done  within  four 
days.  As  to  sharpening  that  pencil,  —  you  can- 
not do  it  this  evening.  For  I  see  your  hand  is 
very  unsteady.  And  do  you  know  that  you  have 
already  cut  away  half  of  the  pencil  ?  You  will 
excuse  my  remarking  it,  because  it  is  the  only 
one  I  have.  You  do  not  look  well,  Percy.  You 
are  not  unwell,  I  hope ;  are  you  ?  " 

"  A  little  so  ;  but  it  is  only  a  very  little." 
"  I  hope  we  shall  not  both  be  ill  together.  And 
indeed,  if  you  feel  at  all  unwell,  it  would  be  very 
imprudent  in  you  to  make  a  journey  to-mor- 
row. If  you  feel  ill,  it  would  be  more  proper  for 
you  to  remain  here.  For  I  suppose  the  air  of 
London  would  do  any  thing  rather  than  favor 
you." 

"  O,  but,  uncle  George,  if  you  will  excuse  me, 
I  would  much  rather  return  to  Chelsea  for  a  little 
while." 

"  Because  you  expect  that  perhaps  you  may 
be  ill ;  and  so  occasion  us  some  trouble  ?  Your 
sickness  we  should  be  sorry  for.  But  trouble  us 


288  THORPE, 

you  would  not.  For  we  should  be  only  too  happy 
to  take  all  possible  care  of  you." 

"  O,  but  if  you  please,  uncle  George,  I  must  go 
to  London  for  a  few  days." 

"  How  can  you  be  sure  it  will  be  only  for  a 
few  days  ?  And  then,  too,  why  should  you  go  ? 
What  is  the  necessity  ?  I  suppose,  Percy,  you 
do  not  think  it  necessary  to  go  to  the  metropolis 
for  medical  assistance,  because  you  expect  to  be 
ill  with  some  rare,  recondite,  difficult  disease. 
There  is  medicine  for  your  case  accessible  here, 
and  a  suitable  physician,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  For  a  month,  only  for  a  month ;  but,  uncle,  I 
must  leave." 

"  And  why  must  you  ?  Cannot  you  tell  me  ? 
To-night  there  is  nothing  you  can  speak  of,  to 
which  I  will  not  listen  willingly.  If  it  is  any 
thing  of  philosophy,  I  will  be  as  patient  as  though 
I  understood  it.  If  it  is  in  the  way  of  poetry,  I 
am  rather  in  the  mood  for  it  this  evening.  Or 
I  will  sympathize  with  you,  if  it  is  a  matter  of 
hatred  of  any  body.  Or  if  it  is  something  more 
Christian  than  hate,  and  even  the  very  reverse 
of  it,  then  for  that  also  I  have  some  feeling,  as 
being  what  better  becomes  your  years  and  ex- 
cellent temper.  There  now !  And  now  you  see 
that  you  can  tell  me  nothing  that  will  surprise 
me.  And  so,  feeling  as  you  do  " 


A    TALE.  289 

"I  am  therefore  too  poor  to  stay  here." 

"  And  yet  the  other  day  you  were  resolute  to 
forego  money-making  and  the  habits  of  life,  along 
which  in  cities  men  move  and  arrive  at  comfort- 
able homes,  and  the  dignities  of  alderman  and 
mayor.  And  you  seem  to  think  that  out  in  the 
wilderness  of  life  there  would  some  raven  bring 
food  to  a  man,  who,  as  having  genius,  has  in  him 
something  of  the  prophet.  But,  Percy,  it  is  not 
yet  too  late.  By  a  fortunate  chance,  my  place  in 
the  counting-house  is  yet  open.  And  you  shall 
fill  it.  Your  leger  will  be  neither  Hebrew,  nor 
Greek,  nor  German ;  but  then,  if  you  keep  your 
attention  well  fixed  upon  it,  whenever  you  do 
look  up  from  the  desk  it  will  be  into  a  future 
bright  with  prosperity,  and  happy  with  the  wife 
who  meets  you  every  evening  at  the  garden  gate, 
and  honorable  by  the  high  offices  up  to  which 
you  will  be  led  for  your  worth." 

"  No  more,  no  more !  Do  not  say  any  thing 
more  to  me,  uncle  George.  Because  you  would 
yourself  hold  it  to  be  a  weak,  pitiful  thing, 
if  I  were  to  forego  the  fixed  purpose  of  years, 
and  a  call,  as  I  have  thought,  almost  divine,  mere- 
ly for  this,  —  this  feeling  that  is  only  of  yester- 
day." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  "  I  do  not  see  why  you 

19 


290 


THORPE, 


should  forego  either  what  you  think  is  your  duty, 
or  what  you  feel  would  be  your  happiness.  At 
present  you  are  poor,  but  not  miserably  so.  You 
are  never  likely  to  be  rich.  But  yet,  with  the 
help  of  what  little  property  you  have,  certainly 
you  may  reasonably  hope,  in  time,  even  on  your 
own  way  of  life  " 

"  But  possibly  that  property  may  never  get  to 
be  disencumbered.  And  even  if  any  thing  could 
be  done  with  the  entail  upon  it,  yet  you  would 
yourself  be  unwilling  to  have  it  touched.  But  at 
the  very  best,  what  should  I  be  to  Mr.  Pellet  ?  " 

"  Be  to  him  ?  What  do  you  want  to  be  to 
him  ?  A  partner  ?  You  would  do  better  to  suc- 
ceed to  me.  Or  perhaps  you  mean  to  be  a  teach- 
er to  him,  for  I  should  think  he  had  never  had 
one  in  any  thing.  Rival,  —  it  is  not  that  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  it  is  what  I  do  not  think  I  ought 
to  be.  And,  indeed,  I  should  disdain  to  try  to 
make  my  poverty  preferable  to  the  comforts  with 
which  wealth  can  store  a  house." 

"  Percy,  I  think  very  highly  of  you.  And  that 
is  exactly  the  way  I  should  expect  you  to  feel. 
And  I  must  say  that  Pellet  is  a  man  of  precisely 
that  character  with  which  many  women  would 
be  pleased.  He  is  not,  perhaps,  a  person  whom 


A    TALE. 


291 


they  would  love,  but  yet  one  to  be  coveted.  For 
certainly,  Percy,  you  must  know  that  a  woman 
may  be  very  beautiful,  and  be  inspiration  for  poets, 
and  yet  herself  not  be  poetical,  but  be  a  woman 
quite  happy  with  small  talk  and  pin-money.  It 
is  true  that  Tom  Pellet  does  not  talk  much ; 
but  what  he  does  say  is  certainly  very  small.  A 
domestic  man !  He  is  as  regular  as  the  house- 
clock.  I  have  met  him  three  times  in  a  day,  and 
always  he  said,  all  in  one  breath,  '  How  do  you 
do  ?  Pretty  well,  thank  you  ?  '  A  very  regular 
man!  Now  there  are  women  of  a  temperament 
more  equable  than  lively,  for  whom,  in  the  order 
of  nature,  he  is  the  very  man  for  a  husband. 
And  so,  Percy,  in  the  course  on  which  you  have 
decided  in  your  own  mind  there  may  be,  not 
only  honor,  but  also  prudence.  And  no  doubt, 
from  what  you  know,  you  judge  rightly  in  think- 
ing that  she  " 

"  Do  not,  uncle,"  said  Percy,  "  do  not  say  it. 
Alice  Heywood  is  no  such  woman.  You  do  not 
know  her,  and  so  you  do  not  understand  her  heart, 
veiled  as  it  is  by  the  modesty  that  is  like  a  vis- 
ible presence  about  her,  and  out  of  which  her 
words  come  timidly.  A  soul  of  such  purity,  and 
gentleness,  and  affection,  and  varied  thought!  It 
has  seemed  to  me  as  though  with  her  mention 


292  THORPE, 

of  them  all  things  grew  beautiful ;  arid  as  though 
with  her  graceful  handling  every  object  grew  gold- 
en. And  oh!  with  hearing  her  talk,  I  have  had 
all  the  circumstances  of  life  about  me  grow  to 
feel  sweet,  —  even  disappointment  and  hardship. 
And  with  the  sound  of  her  voice  I  have  had 
brought  about  me  and  over  me  the  presence  of  a 
cathedra],  —  high  and  holy,  —  with  solemn  strains 
of  music  in  it  like  worship." 

"  Then  I  should  think  that  with  her  Mr.  Pellet 
would  feel  uncomfortable,  very  often.  And  I  do 
not  think  that  she  would  herself  be  very  happy 
in  building  up  a  temple  of  the  Muses  about  a 
man,  who  has  in  his  soul  nothing  of  any  one  of 
the  nine  Muses,  neither  poetry,  nor  music,  nor 
grace,  nor  eloquence,  nor  history,  nor  astronomy, 
nor  tragedy." 

"  But  neither  am  I  worthy  of  her.  And  I  feel 
it  bitterly.  Perhaps  I  might  have  been,  if  I  had 
always  been  true  to  my  knowledge  of  right.  But 
I  have  not  been.  My  follies  and  sins,  —  it  seems 
as  though  they  were  calling  after  me  from  all 
along  the  course  of  my  past  life,  —  from  the  cit- 
ies I  lived  in, — the  schools  I  went  to,  —  from 
one  spot  where  I  once  quarrelled  with  a  boy, — 
and  from  a  wayward,  passionate  hour,  when  I 
was  only  five  years  old,  but  which  I  remember 


A    TALE.  293 

yet  so  distinctly  and  painfully.  And  these  sins 
seem  to  call  after  me  and  challenge  me  for  un- 
worthiness.  And  almost  they  might  forbid  my 
happiness,  even  if  there  were  no  other  hinderance 
in  the  way  of  it." 

"  A  very  proper  feeling,"  said  Mr.  Coke.     "  For  I 
have  heard  that  Miss  Alice  is  sensible  and  religious, 

—  indeed,  quite  a  right-minded  young  woman." 
"  So  good,  so  cheerful!      She  dwells  in  such  an 

atmosphere  of  purity.  Always  there  are  wait- 
ing on  her,  like  ministering  angels,  such  sweet, 
heavenly  thoughts.  And  I  do  feel  as  though  it 
might  be  wrong  in  me  to  seek  to  diminish  her 
excellence  by  drawing  her  into  sympathy  with 
myself.  For  I  am  unworthy  of  her." 

"  No  doubt.     And  so  you  are  of  any  woman, 

—  any  good,  true-hearted  woman.      And  perhaps 
there  is  not  a  woman  who  would  be  worthy  of 
you.     And  yet  men  and  women  are  intended  to 
be  blessings  to  one  another.     And  often  they  are. 
But   when   they    are    happy  in  one    another,  and 
more   than   happy,  when   they  are  blessed  in  one 
another,  they  are  so,  not  simply  from  their  being 
worthy  of  one   another   by  nature,  or  from   their 
thinking    themselves    so,    but    from    there    being 
about  them  a  God  by  whose  silent  power  hearts 
act  on  one  another  for  good  by  unknown  ways." 


294  THORPE, 

Here  Mr.  Coke  seemed  to  forget  the  presence 
of  his  nephew,  and  sat  apparently  in  earnest 
meditation.  After  a  little  time  Percy  said,  "  I 
had  not  expected  so  much  sympathy  from  you, 
uncle.  And  really  I  was  afraid  I  might  have  to 
hear  from  you  something  that  might  perhaps 
sound  harsh  to  me.  Because  I  suppose  that  you 
have  always  kept  yourself  free  from  any  such 
trouble  as  this  of  mine.  Yes,  almost  I  was  afraid 
of  you.  But  sometimes  how  much  we  are  mis- 
taken in  one  another  ! " 

"  And  how  often  !  As  you  had  intended  to 
leave  in  the  morning,  I  suppose  you  have  taken 
your  leave  of  the  lady." 

"  I  have  of  the  house.  For  when  I  called  at  it, 
she  was  not  in." 

"  And  so  you  have  left  the  lady  to  believe  her- 
self slighted,  and  to  accept  Tom  Pellet,  as  being 
at  least  a  man  who  knows  his  own  mind,  though 
it  is  rather  little.  Here  have  you  been  drawing 
the  lady's  thoughts  to  yourself " 

"  Never,  never !  Me  !  She  has  never  had  a 
thought  of  me,  I  am  sure.  Why,  uncle,  it  is  al- 
most ridiculous  to  think " 

"  So  it  is.  But  I  hope  you  do  not  think  it  is 
ridiculous  in  a  lady  to  think  at  all,  on  any  sub- 
ject. You  are  possessed  with  the  very  spirit  of 


A    TALE. 

what  we  will  call  tragedy,  poetry,  —  no,  we  will 
call  it  music.  You  have  been  musical,  and  been 
playing  your  very  best,  and  yet  you  have  not 
made  a  tune,  not  one  harmony,  nothing  which 
any  body  would  recognize  as  music." 

"  Not  a  word " 

"  That  will  do.  And  now  listen  to  me.  You 
do  not  know  yourself.  But  I  know  you.  And 
it  is  fortunate  for  you  that  I  do.  I  could  show 
you  your  exact  likeness.  But  I  feel  myself  just 
now  too  weak  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  you. 
Proud,  —  proud  !  You  are  proud,  and  scarcely 
know  it.  Had  Shylock  by  the  merest  trickery 
made  a  bargain  with  you,  you  would  have  been 
silent  on  it,  and  have  folded  your  arms,  and  you 
would  have  let  him  cut  away  your  flesh  from 
your  side,  and  even  your  heart,  if  he  had  preferred 
it.  There  is  a  pride,  that  is  loud  and  oppressive, 
and  it  is  very  common.  And  there  is  another 
pride,  that  is  very  rare,  but  which  by  nature  is 
silent  and  passive.  And  that  is  your  pride.  It 
has  been  mine,  too,  to  my  sorrow  and  hurt.  And 
now  do  not  let  us  be  hasty.  You  shall  not  go 
to  London  for  three  days.  But  you  shall  go,  to- 
morrow, to  Manchester,  where  I  have  some  busi- 
ness which  needs  your  attention.  You  agree  to 
this  ?  » 


296  THORPE, 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  In  itself  pride  is  a  simple  feeling,  and  may 
be  known  at  once.  But  the  finer  are  the  ele- 
ments of  character  which  it  pervades,  the  harder 
it  becomes  to  understand.  A  man  of  a  great 
heart,  if  he  is  proud,  will  often  act  as  though  per- 
versely with  the  greatest  simplicity,  and  will  be- 
have himself  absurdly,  out  of  the  noblest  consid- 
erations. Understood  how  should  he  be,  when 
his  actions  are  prompted  by  proud  humility?  —  a 
quality  which  cannot  even  be  described  but  in 
words  of  Self-contradiction." 

The  last  sentence  Mr.  Coke  spoke  as  though 
to  himself;  his  eye  the  while  turning  from  his 
nephew  to  the  fire,  which  no  longer  blazed  up  the 
chimney,  but  only  glowed  hot  and  red  in  the  em- 
bers. 


A    TALE.  297 


XXXV. 

• 

"PRIDE,  pride!"  The  day  when  the  minister 
said  that  to  Mr.  Coke,  there  went  through  his 
mind  a  flash  of  light  that  was  self-knowledge. 

Pride,  —  of  that,  as  a  fault,  he  had  never  once 
suspected  himself.  For  he  was  conscious  of 
things  which  are  inconsistent  almost  always  with 
pride,  —  a  heart  tender  as  a  child's,  —  a  spirit 
self-accusing  on  the  smallest  fault,  —  a  reverence 
for  human  nature  even  in  the  most  ragged  garb 
of  a  way-side  beggar,  —  and  a  willingness  to  stand 
aside  and  let  the  unworthy  pass  on  up  to  places 
of  emolument  and  honor. 

With  the  exception  of  one  who  was  a  spend- 
thrift, and  another  who  was  only  wise  in  his  own 
eyes,  the  Cokes  had  all  been  men  of  the  same 
type  of  character,  and  even  of  the  same  bodily 
look.  The  stature  of  Sir  Humphrey  in  Drayton 
Church  was  the  exact  likeness  of  Mr.  George. 


THORPE 


And  perhaps,  from  the  time  of  Sir  Humphrey,  not 

one  of  these    Cokes  had   ever  known  himself  till 

• 

now. 

In  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  the  family 
character  was  not  uncongenial  with  the  spirit 
of  the  times,  and  so  was  not  without  honor  and 
some  success  in  the  world.  But  ever  since  the 
sixteenth  century  the  Cokes  had  been  declining. 
Yet  they  had  sunk  in  the  world  probably  with- 
out there  ever  having  been  a  murmur  from  the 
lips  of  any  one  of  them  in  seven  generations. 

Whenever  any  advantage  had  offered  itself  to 
one  of  them,  almost  always  the  impulse  with  him 
had  been  to  self-inspection  and  self-suspicion. 
And  several  times  one  or  other  of  them  had  be- 
haved unwisely  in  their  affairs,  merely  out  of  the 
fear  of  their  possibly  acting  or  being  thought  to 
act  from  unworthy  motives.  They  abstained  from 
things  which  they  wanted  to  do,  merely  for  fear 
of  being  thought  to  do  them  out  of  flattery.  And 
they  did  some  things  which  they  did  not  wish  to 
do,  —  things  of  no  manner  of  propriety,  —  simply 
because  they  were  afraid  of  being  afraid  of  not 
doing  them.  Heroes  who  acted  absurdly  from  the 
fear  of  being  cowards !  And  often  they  had  lost 
good  friends,  had  ceased  from  communication  with 
them,  not  from  carelessness,  but  from  fearing  that 


A    TALE.  299 

themselves  they  must  be,  and  must  certainly  be 
thought  to  be,  unworthy  of  trust  or  kindness. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  thinking  of  his  past  life,  Mr. 
Coke  said  to  himself, *"  Pride,  my  besetting  sin; 
pride !  Would  that  I  had  come  to  this  knowl- 
edge sooner !  And  yet  would  it  have  helped  me  ? 
I  hardly  think  it  would ;  indeed,  I  am  sure  it 
would  not.  For  I  feel  that  I  must  still  have  acted 
the  same,  and  been  the  same,  —  sensitive,  fas- 
tidious, absurdly  chivalric.  No,  no  !  I  should  not 
have  walked  in  life  any  the  more  sensibly  for 
having  had  a  mirror  in  which  to  see  myself,  how- 
ever steadily  I  had  held  it  up  to  my  face.  Indeed, 
for  a  man  of  my  subtle  vice,  the  only  true  guid- 
ance is  to  see  one's  self  in  the  eyes  of  a  friend, 
and  to  have  hold  of  a  hand  which  one  can  press 
for  love,  and  at  times  follow  blindly." 


THORPE, 


XXXVI. 

MARTIN  MAY  had  become  intimate  at  Hasling- 
den  Hall.  He  found  that  Mr.  Burleigh,  the  Justice, 
as  he  was  called,  was  a  man  both  credulous  and 
suspicious,  tyrannical  and  tender-hearted,  very  ac- 
cessible and  very  kind  to  any  person  soliciting 
his  help,  and  very  fierce  against  every  one  offer- 
ing him  the  least  opposition.  If  a  poor  man 
with  a  starving  family  should  pull  up  five  or  six 
turnips  in  a  field,  the  Justice  would  commit  him 
to  prison  for  two  months,  and  then  maintain  his 
family  in  his  absence,  and  perhaps  give  the  crim- 
inal a  suit  of  clothes  on  his  coming  out  of  con- 
finement. Every  day,  immediately  after  dinner, 
it  was  his  custom  to  fill  his  glass,  and  then  to 
drink  as  a  toast,  "  England !  And  let  them  that 
do  not  like  it  leave  it ! " 

His  wife  was  a  gentle,  timid  woman,  and 
very  beautiful.  All  her  anxiety,  and  nearly  all 


A    TA'LE.  301 

her  thoughts,  were  for  her  two  sons.  Almost  she 
feared  to  have  any  one  speak  to  them.  And 
very  careful  she  was  to  keep  them  out  of  the 
way  of  her  husband's  acquaintance,  who  most 
of  them  were  men  ruddy  with  port-wine  and 
fresh  air. 

For  these  two  youths  a  tutor  was  wanted. 
And  Martin  May  thought  that  it  would  be  a 
good  arrangement,  if  they  could  become  the  pu- 
pils of  Percy  Coke.  After  some  inquiry  and  con- 
sultation, the  Justice  empowered  Martin  May  to 
offer  to  Percy  Coke  very  liberal  terms  for  his  ac- 
ceptance, if  he  were  willing  to  give  instruction 
to  two  boys  for  four  or  five  hours  a  day.  This 
proposal  Martin  May  called  at  Mr.  Coke's  to  com- 
municate, on  the  very  day  on  which  Percy  had 
proposed  to  leave  for  London. 

Percy  Coke  was  glad  to  accept  the  proposal, 
because  it  insured  him  a  maintenance  and  a  res- 
idence at  Thorpe.  And  he  acquiesced  in  it  all 
the  more  easily  for  the  way  in  which  the  minis- 
ter showed  him  the  truth  of  Martin  Luther's  say- 
ing, that,  in  order  to  be  a  good  theologian,  it  is 
well  for  a  man  first  to  be  a  schoolmaster. 

"  And,"  said  the  minister,  "  it  is  the  truth  ;  and 
it  is  so  whether  or  not  my  reasons  for  the  opin- 
ion are  the  same  as  Luther  would  himself  have 


302  THORPE, 

given.  At  one  time  I  got  together  twenty,  thirty, 
forty  ignorant  young  men.  And  for  a  good  while 
in  an  evening  I  taught  them  reading,  writing,  and 
other  elementary  knowledge.  And  I  found  that, 
with  being  earnest  in  teaching,  my  mind  had 
come  over  it  some  very  desirable  effects  as  to  sim- 
plicity and  aptitude." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Percy, 
without  minding  much  what  was  said,  for  there 
seemed  to  open  before  him  a  beautiful  vista  into 
life ;  and  he  was  thinking  of  three  things  like  one, 
marriage,  theology,  and  a  tutorship. 

The  minister  continued,  "  There  are  times,  — 
I  do  not  say  they  are  my  best  or  most  hopeful 
seasons,  —  but  there  are  times  in  which  all  my 
highest  attempts  feel  like  failures,  and  when  I 
feel  as  though  no  one  word  of  any  sermon  of 
mine  had  ever  done  any  good.  But  of  the  peo- 
ple I  taught  their  letters  I  can  always  think  with 
some  satisfaction ;  because,  though  persons  may 
forget  and  do  forget  the  very  best  discourses,  they 
do  not  ever  forget  how  to  read.  Next  to  that  of 
a  preacher,  the  office  of  a  teacher  of  boys  is  the 
greatest  and  the  best  ;  so  says  Martin  Luther. 
But  there  is  one  consideration  which  does  not 
affect  the  schoolmaster,  and  which  greatly  abates 
for  the  clergyman  his  satisfaction  with  his  office. 


A    TALE. 


For,  as  the  Reformer  argues,  it  is  hard  to  make 
old  dogs  tame,  and  old  rogues  upright ;  and  yet 
at  this  task  the  preacher  has  to  labor,  and  often 
labor  in  vain." 


304  THORPE, 


XXXVII. 

MR.  COKE  sat  by  the  fireside,  and  on  a  low 
chair  near  him,  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
sat  Louisa  Lawton. 

"  I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day," 
said  the  lady,  as  she  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  For 
do  not  you  know  that  this  is  your  birthday  ?  " 

"  So  it  is.  But  I  had  forgotten  it.  Yet  you, 
Louisa,  you  remember  it  still." 

"  Yes,  every  day  for  the  last  month  I  have  re- 
membered it  was  coming.  And  I  thought  I  would 
be  here  for  it.  Ah,  that  smile  !  It  was  so  like  the 
way  you  used  to  smile  when  you  came  to  Darley. 
And,  George,  you  look  so  much  better." 

"  Do  I  ?  And  so  do  you.  You  are  ten  years 
younger  than  you  were  two  months  ago.  You 
move,  speak,  and  look  now  just  as  you  used  to, 
—  that  sweet,  lively  way.  Ah,  that  glance  of  the 
eye !  You  have  got  it  again." 


A    TALE.  305 

"But,  George,  you  do  look  so  much  better." 

"  It  is  because  of  you,  and  because  my  mind 
is  easier  than  it  was." 

"  O,  but  you  are  really  better.  Every  body  says 
so.  And,  George,  you  will  be  well  soon.  Or 
at  least  you  will  be  so  very  much  better.  And 
oh !  how  happy  that  will  be ! " 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Coke  solemnly,  and  he  laid 
his  hand  on  hers,  "do  not,  —  do  not  think  so. 
I  beg  you  not  to  think  so.  For  really  I  am  no 
better,  —  no  better.  I  am  happier  than  I  was,  but 
in  health  I  am  no  better.  I  am  no  better,  though 
with  seeing  you  I  am  become  very,  very  happy." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  tears 
streamed  down  the  lady's  face.  At  last  she  said, 
"O  George,  do  not  think  so;  do  not  think  so! 
Do  hope  the  best.  I  do  not  deserve  to  have  you 
live ;  and  I  feel  that  I  do  not.  But  it  cannot  be 
that  society  is  to  lose  you,  —  you  so  wise  and 
good,  —  and  just  as  you  are  becoming  known. 
O,  with*  your  words  there  is  so  much  wrong  that 
ought  to  take  a  new  shape,  a  new,  happy  shape, 
for  the  public!  And  so  it  cannot  be,  —  it  cannot 

be,  George,  that  —  that .  But  to-day  is  a 

dull,  heavy  day,  and  so  you  feel  desponding. 
These  last  days  of  November  are  the  worst  that 
could  be  for  you.  And  yet  you  look  so  much 
20 


THORPE, 

better  even  now  than  you  did.  And  you  will 
feel  better  soon,  —  when  the  weather  becomes 
clearer,  and  the  sun  shines  again.  Ah,  now  you 
smile  again,  and  I  can  see,  and  I  am  sure  how 
much  better  you  are.  Do  you  remember  it, 
George?  I  was  thinking  of  it,  yesterday,  —  that 
birthday  of  yours,  when  you  were  at  Darley,  and 
we  went  that  ride  between  the  rocks,  when  the 
leaves  from  out  of  the  woods  above  were  whirled 
along  befoVe  us  so  curiously.  Ah,  little  did  I 
think  then  of  that  storm  in  which  you  would  so 
soon  be  wrapped,  and  how  I  should  remain  stand- 
ing apart  from  you  in  my  quiet,  comfortable  home. 
O,  to  think  that  our  happy  prospects  were  all  to 
end  as  they  did !  " 

"  Hush,  hush ! "  said  Mr.  Coke,  with  a  strange 
smile.  "  For,  after  all,  our  fortune  has  not  been 
as  hard  as  that  of  many  other  lovers  of  that  time, 
and  some  of  whom  we  knew,  —  some  who  were 
married  and  were  then  at  once  parted  by  death, 

—  some  who  were  quite  mistaken  in  one  enother, 

—  some  who  found  they  could  love  only  as  long 
as  they  were  prosperous,  —  and  some  who  soon 
found  their  partners  grow  tedious." 

"  O  George,  you  pain  me,  talking  so.  For," 
said  the  lady  in  a  tone  of  tender  conviction,  "  you 
know  our  love  never,  never  could " 


A    TALE.  307 

"  Hush,  Louisa !  For  it  is  selfishness  in  me  to 
let  you  talk  thus.  It  is  a  sweet,  sweet  tempta- 
tion. But  yet,  Louisa,  it  is  wrong  in  me  to  let 
my  heart  be  pleased  with  your  affectionate  words. 
Because  never,  never  can  love,  for  me,  be  any  thing 
else  than  anxiety,  and  very  soon  it  must  be  mere 
pain." 

"  Those  are  cruel  words,  George,  very  cruel," 
said  the  lady,  with  a  trembling  voice.  "  I  know 
you  do  not  mean  them  so ;  but  they  are.  O,  you 
must  unsay  them,  dear  George.  And  the  truest, 
highest  love,  —  is  not  it  always  thoughtful,  and 
therefore  always  more  or  less  anxious  ? " 

"  But  this  love  against  the  gates  of  the  grave," 
said  Mr.  Coke,  "  this  unfortunate  love " 

"  Is  better  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all.  O, 
unsay  those  words ;  because  they  will  be  very 
hard  for  me  to  think  of.  Since  what  now  is  there 
left  me  in  this  world  ?  Of  all  the  sweetness  of 
ten  years  ago,  when  my  mother  folded  me  to  her 
bosom,  because  I  was  so  happy  that  I  wept ;  and 
when  my  father's  voice  was  loud  and  merry  iu 
the  garden  and  the  field  ;  and  when  you  used  to 
come  to  Darley  Dale,  making  every  body  feel  as 
though  it  were  a  holiday  time,  —  of  it  all,  what 
is  there  remaining  to  me,  but  this  long,  dear  — 
this  —  this " 


THORPE, 

"  This  unfortunate  affection,  which  I  should 
try  to  have  you  forget,  were  I  as  unselfish  as  I 
ought  to  be." 

"  To  the  —  the  —  the  last,  —  always,  I  must 
love ;  and  you  must  let  me.  Or  else  how  will 
it  be,  if  you  do  not.  How  will  it  be  with  me, 
if  my  life  be  emptied  of  its  meaning  ?  For  what 
does  it  mean^  It  means  how  sweet,  heavenly 
sweet,  love  may  be  even  in  human  hearts,  —  how 
precious  a  possession  it  is,  even  when  it  is  be- 
come a  remembrance  only,  —  and  how  even  a  rec- 
ollection of  frustrated  love  may  for  years  and  years 
be  like  a  lamp  in  a  tomb,  sad,  but  undying." 

"  Sad,  and  therefore  what  ought  not  to  be  al- 
lowed to  be  undying,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  and  took  in 
his  the  hand  of  the  lady. 

"  And,  besides,  George,  I  have  learned  from  you 
to  believe  that  it  is  not  merely  as  being  some- 
thing delightful  in  a  happy,  earthly  home,  that 
God  lets  rise  in  us  this  sweet  affection,  but  also 
that  by  it  our  hearts  may  be  strengthened  with 
courage  for  the  grave,  and  with  hope  for  the  future 
beyond  it.  And,  indeed,  I  have  myself  experienced 
something  of  this.  Ah,  yes,  those  old,  sweet  re- 
membrances, —  they  were  long  the  strength  on 
which  I  lived,  unfortunate,  but  not  utterly  unhappy. 
But  those  tears,  —  why  those  tears  ?  " 


A    TALE.  309 

"  Not  for  any  thing  of  pain,  love,  but  only  for 
this  great  happiness,  which  I  do  not  deserve." 

"  Then  you  will  not  say  again  as  though  you 
would  rather  —  rather  —  rather  not  have  me  speak 
my  love.  You  will  not  speak  so  again  ?  " 

"  No  ;  not  again,  Louisa,  never  again." 

"  It  is  this  weather  which  is  so  much  against 
you.  And  you  are  weak  with  the  want  of  fresh 
air.  Though  indeed  you  are  better  than  you 
were,  much ;  for  you  look  much  better.  And 
now,  George,  do  think  yourself  so,  for  my  sake. 
Very  soon  these  foggy  days  will  be  over ;  and 
then  it  will  be  Christmas  ;  and  then  the  days  will 
lengthen ;  and  then  soon  it  will  be  spring  and 
be  warm.  And  you  will  get  strong  then ;  I  am 
sure  you  will." 

"  Why,  all  that  is  next  year,  Louisa.  And  it 
is  a  long  while  to  next  summer.  And  in  the 
mean  time,  you  must  help  me  to  pray  to  God 
that  his  will  may  be  done.  And  cannot  we  learn 
to  feel  that  will  so  holy  and  good,  so  trustworthy, 
as  being  God's  own,  so  as  that  we  should  long 
towards  it,  and  bow  to  it  devoutly  and  gladly, 
in  whatever  shape  it  comes  and  shows  itself?" 

"  We  will  hope,  we  will  trust  we  may ;  but  O, 
dear  George  " 

"  Hush !  hear  me.     If  I  were  in  my  last  sleep, 


310 


THORPE 


lying  in  a  tomb,  and  angels  should  come  and  wake 
me  up,  and  then  leave  it  to  me  either  to  return 
to  health  and  strength  and  you,  on  my  own  wish, 
or  to  have  God  decide  for  me  for  the  best,  I  do 
believe  I  should  lie  down,  and  shut  my  eyes,  and 
fold  my  hands,  and  say,  '  God's  will  be  done.' 
And  what  I. should  pray  in  the  darkness  of  the 
grave,  —  ought  it  not  to  be  my  prayer  and  your 
prayer,  —  our  prayer  in  the  darkness  of  human 
life  ?  To  pray  God  to  do  his  will,  —  heartily  to 
pray  him  that,  after  having  overcome  a  craving 
of  our  own  will,  —  this  is  a  great,  blessed  thing; 
and  the  chance,  the  opportunity  of  doing  it,  is  a 
great  privilege  allowed  me.  And  so  I  feel  it. 
And,  Louisa,  of  my  life  there  is  many  a  recollec- 
tion which  I  would  gladly  forget.  But  the  things 
I  could  wish  to  forget  I  cannot  forget.  But  yet  I 
feel  as  though  the  pain  of  them  would  cease  in  my 
heart,  if  only  my  soul  could  shape  itself  so  as  to 
show  itself  perfectly  reconciled  to  God,  —  afflicted 
of  God,  yet  trusting  him,  resigned  to  him,  loving 
him.  And,  Louisa,  toward  feeling  as  I  ought 
your  words  will  help  me  much,  for  they  so  soothe, 
and  purify,  and  encourage  me." 

The  lady  held  Mr.  Coke's  hand,  and,  bowing 
her  forehead 'on  to  it,  she  wept  and  sobbed.  It 
grew  dusk.  And  when  the  lady  had  become 


A    TAI,F.. 


311 


calm  again  Mr.  Coke  said,  "  Whether  we  smile 
or  weep,  see  now  how  time  goes  on.  We  weep, 
and  it  grows  dark ;  and  had  we  been  laughing, 
still  it  would  have  grown  dark,  only  perhaps  a 
little  faster.  For,  ah!  there  is  on  us  and  about 
us  a  power  which  is  influence  over  us,  —  change, 
impulse,  and  authority,  —  gloom  and  pleasure, 
day  and  night,  an  answer  to  prayer,  and  wisdom 
that  is  infinite.  And  we,  Louisa,  —  if  we  have 
not  had  our  happiness,  it  has  not  been  because 
we  have  failed  of  it,  but  because  we  have  been 
drawn  to  forego  it  by  this  power  which  we  call 
divine,  and  which  we  worship.  Though  we  will 
not  think  of  God  as  being  careless  of  the  love 
which  we  human  creatures  feel  for  one  another. 
Yours  and  mine,  —  our  love  for  one  another,  — 
this  growth  of  our  hearts  at  their  best  may  have 
been  unfortunate,  but  yet  I  believe  in  this  world 
there  is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  it  is,  —  not 
even  to  that  omnipresent  eye  which  evermore  has 
open  to  it  the  workings  of  the  highest  intellects, 
and  the  interiors  of  solemn  cathedrals,  and  the 
recesses  of  vast  forests,  and  the  secret  depths  of 
the  earth." 

"  Ah,  that  is  as  you  used  to  talk.  Do  not  you 
remember  the  evening  when  we  sat  on  the  rock 
at  Matlock,  with  the  river  running  below  ?  " 


THORPE 


"  O  the  memories  we  have  in  common,  —  re- 
membrances of  long  ago,  and  yet  sweet  and  fresh 
as  growing  flowers  !  " 

"  O  George,  I  like  to  hear  you  speak  so  !  " 

"  And  O  the  magical  power  of  your  name  on 
me  now  so  long,  and  of  mine  on  you !  Is  not 
it  so  ?  " 

"  George!" 

"  And  with  loving  one  another,  O  the  way  our 
souls  towered  up,  high  above  the  world  and  all 
meanness !  And  with  knowing  one  another's 
souls,  O  the  spiritual  way  life  felt  and  nature! 
And  because  of  its  being  what  it  is,  —  this  love 
of  ours,  —  there  is  more  in  it  than  what  will  cease 
at  the  grave.  Mine,  Louisa,  you  are  mine,  as 
you  used  to  say, —  mine  for  ever." 


A    TALE.  313 


XXXVIII. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  shortest  day,  in  the 
porch  of  St.  John's  Church,  there  was  distributed 
what  was  called  St.  Thomas's  dole,  —  a  yearly 
gift  of  bread  to  the  poor,  bequeathed  by  some 
good  Catholic  of  the  fourteenth  century.  On  a 
table  were  piled  up  loaves  of  bread.  And  beside 
the  table  stood  the  two  church-wardens.  They 
\Vere  both  of  them  corpulent  and  ruddy,  and  near- 
ly seventy  years  of  age.  One  of  them  incessantly 
took  snuff  from  a  gold  box,  which  he  held  open 
in  his  hand.  And  the  other  often  twirled  about 
a  great  bunch  of  seals,  which  hung  suspended 
from  his  watch. 

Outside  the  porch,  in  the  churchyard,  stood  the 
poor  people,  —  old  men  ragged,  and  some  of  them 
deaf,  and  some  of  them  blind,  —  old  women 
dressed  in  scarlet  cloaks,  and  very  clamorous  for 
their  turns,  —  and  some  young  women,  looking 


314 


THORPK, 


pale  and  worn,  though  clean.  And  on  the  steps 
of  the  porch,  with  a  club-stick  in  his  hand,  stood 
the  bellman,  looking  fierce  and  active. 

Martin  May  at  this  time  happened  to  be  cross- 
ing the  Market-place  :  and  seeing  the  crowd,  he 
went  up  to  the  church,  and  very  officiously  was 
ushered  into  the  porch  by  the  bellman.  Among 
the  last  of  the  poor  admitted  inside  the  porch 
was  a  young  woman  of  a  very  pretty,  modest 
look,  and  with  a  child  in  her  arms. 

"  You  here  !  "  cried  one  of  the  wardens.  "  There 
is  nothing  for  you.  Go  away.  I  saw  that  Tom 
DooMttle  of  yours  down  in  my  pasture.  He  was 
setting  snares  for  rabbits.  I  know  him.  And  I 
only  wish  I  could  have  caught  him.  And  then 
you  to  come  here,  with  that  child  in  your  arms ! 
Shame  on  you! " 

The  young  woman  never  answered  a  word ; 
but  went  out  of  the  porch  at  once.  Martin  May 
followed  her  a  few  steps,  and  saw  that  the  tears 
were  rolling  fast  down  her  cheeks,  and  dropping 
on  her  baby. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  said  Martin  May 
to  her.  "  You  seem  very  poor.  So  how  is  it  that 
you  have  not  a  loaf  like  the  others  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  it  is  because  I  am  not  married," 
said  the  young  woman,  and  hung  down  her  head 
and  blushed. 


A    TALE.  315 

"  Not  married !  And  yet  you Why,  how 

is  this?" 

"  It  is  because  we  are  so  poor.  But  we  have 
always  been  faithful  to  one  another.  Of  that  I 
am  very  sure.  And  twice  Thomas  has  paid  to 
have  the  banns  of  marriage  put  up  in  the  church. 
And  the  first  time,  all  the  while  till  the  notice 
was  out,  we  had  not  the  rest  of  the  money  to  be 
married  with.  And  so  we  lost  what  had  been 
paid  to  the  clerk.  And  so  we  shall  again.  Be- 
cause, last  October,  Thomas  paid  two  shillings  to 
have  the  banns  published  in  the  church  again. 
And  next  Friday  is  the  last  day  that  we  can  be 
married  on  that  notice.  And  now  again  we  have 
not  got  the  rest  of  the  money  for  the  parson.  O 
dear,  O  dear !  I  know  it  is  very  wrong.  But 
what  can  we  do,  —  we  poor  people  ?  It  costs 
so  much  money  to  be  married ;  and  we  cannot 
even  buy  bread." 

"  Well  now,  I  will  promise  you  that,  if  you  will 
go  to  Mr.  Lingard,  he  will  marry  you  for  noth- 
ing." 

"  Please,  sir,  my  mother  was  married  in  this 
church." 

"  And  do  you  attend  this  church  ?  " 

"  O,  sir,  we  poor  people  cannot  come  to  church. 
We  have  not  got  clothes  fit  for  church.  And 


316  THORPE, 

then,  besides,  there  is  always  something  to  keep 
us  poor  women  at  home.  But  my  mother  used 
to  come  sometimes,  and  always  on  Good  Friday." 

"  And  Mr.  Doolittle,  does  he  come  to  church  ?  " 

"  O,  no,  sir!  He  says  he  will  come  here  with 
me  once,  to  be  married,  and  be  brought  here 
when  he  is  dead.  And  that  is  all  that  he  will 
ever  come,  he  says.  For  he  is  so  angry  at  los- 
ing twice  over  the  money  which  he  has  paid  for 
having  the  banns  put  up.  And  please,  sir,  I  tell 
him  that  he  ought  not  to  talk  so.  But  it  all 
comes  ojf  his  keeping  company  with  Humphrey 
Sharpies." 

"  Does  Doctor  Scoresby  know  that  he  has  been 
paid  twice  over  for  publishing  your  banns  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  cannot  tell." 

"  Now  I  have  no  doubt  that  what  you  have 
told  me  is  quite  correct.  And  if  it  is,  you  will 
go,  this  evening,  to  John  Kittringham.  Do  you 
know  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  is  the  sexton  at  the  Presbyte- 
rian Chapel.  And  he  lives  just  round  the  corner, 
there.  But,  sir,  he  does  not  know  me,  —  not  at 
all." 

"  Never  mind  that.  Do  you  call  at  his  house 
this  evening.  And  he  will  give  you  the  money 
for  you  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning.  And, 


A    TALE. 


317 


besides,  he  will  give  you  half  a  crown  for  a 
Christmas  dinner." 

The  young  woman  went  away,  thinking  not 
much  of  the  joys  of  marriage,  but  feeling  cheered 
with  the  hope,  that  next  morning  she  should 
emerge  from  under  a  cloud  of  shame. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  bellman,  "  it  is  all  of  no  use  to 
give  money  to  that  kind  of  people.  She  will  be 
just  as  poor  to-morrow  morning." 

"  And  yet  you  have  been  giving  away  all  those 
loaves ! " 

"  O,  that  is  a  different  thing.     That  is  the  law." 

"  I  understand  that  this  bread  was  left  to  the 
poor  in  Catholic  times." 

"  Very  likely.  And  what  a  trouble  it  is,  every 
year,  for  us  parish  officers!  A  strange  people 
those  Catholics  were,  —  a  people  of  no  manner 
of  reason,  as  I  have  read." 

Leaving  the  bellman  at  the  church  door,  Mar- 
tin May  walked  down  Church  Street.  And  ev- 
ery here  and  there  he  noticed  signs  of  the  ap- 
proaching Christmas,  —  at  the  butchers'  shops 
unusually  fat  beef,  decorated  with  laurel,  —  and 
at  the  grocers'  a  great  display  of  plums  and  cur- 
rants and  other  fruits.  And  at  the  gate  of  the 
almshouses  he  saw  a  man  carrying  in  a  great 
holly-bush,  covered  with  scarlet  berries." 


318  THORPE, 

Martin  May  had  never  yet  seen  the  inside  of 
the  almshouses.  And  so  he  followed  the  man 
who  was  carrying  in  the  tokens  of  Christmas. 
At  the  almshouses  he  did  not  find  any  thing  re- 
markable anywhere  except  in  the  chapel,  where 
there  was  an  old,  very  old  picture.  It  was  the 
portrait  of  a  woman  ghastly  pale,  beautiful  by 
nature,  but  from  some  cause  looking  miserable, 
utterly  and  hopelessly.  Martin  May  sat  down 
upon  a  bench  and  gazed  up  at  the  picture.  Al- 
most he  wondered  that  that  look  of  agony  never 
relaxed.  And  he  fancied  that  possibly  he  might 
even  have  been  drawn  into  such  sympathy  with 
the  pictured  woe,  as  to  have  shrieked  at  the  sight 
of  it,  only  that  the  womanly  sufferer  herself  looked 
so  calm  and  resolute  with  her  misery. 

When  he  left  and  went  up  the  street,  he  felt 
as  though  he  had  just  come  away  from  a  scene 
of  suffering,  —  some  sudden  discovery  of  treach- 
ery, —  some  death-bed,  where  a  young  wife  has 
suddenly  known  herself  a  widow.  And  he 
thought  how  strange  it  was  that  such  a  picture 
should  be  in  such  a  place,  —  and  how  wonderful 
it  was  that  that  painted  agony  should  be  lasting 
on,  age  after  age,  making  spectators  fear  how 
wretched  perhaps  they  themselves  might  some- 
times become.  And  while  he  was  thinking  of 


A    TALE.  319 

this,  he  remembered  the  young  woman  by  the 
church  porch.  And  he  was  glad  of  having  met 
her,  and  been  her  timely  helper.  But  still  that 
face !  He  could  not  forget  it ;  though  it  did  not 
pain  him  to  recollect.  For  now  that  he  was 
away  from  it,  he  found  that  he  remembered  it 
more  and  more  as  an  expression  of  calmness  in 
agony,  —  as  an  intimation  of  how  the  soul  is 
stronger  than  grief,  —  any  grief. 

And  as  he  went  on  up  the  street  towards  the 
Parsonage,  he  said  to  himself,  "  A  procession  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  —  a  journey,  during  which, 
earlier  or  later,  there  is  a  cross  laid  upon  every 
one,  —  that  is  what  life  is.  A  pilgrim  after  Adam 
and  Eve,  or  more  exactly  after  Adam,  when  per- 
haps Eve  was  dead,  —  and  more  hopefully,  and 
in  a  diviner  way,  a  follower  after  Christ,  —  that  is 
what  I  am ! "  And  thinking  so,  he  felt  that  he 
was  become  more  resigned  than  once  he  had  ever 
hoped  to  be. 

Martin  May  said  to  the  minister,  "  It  seems 
to  me,  that  these  Christmas  customs  and  the 
practices  in  celebration  of  the  new  year  have 
blended  in  them  very  singularly  things  of  Druidi- 
cal  and  Roman  and  Christian  origin." 

On  his  saying  this,  the  minister  laid  open  be- 
fore him  a  volume,  in  which  he  read  these  words 


320 


THORPE, 


of  a  sermon  by  St.  Ambrose :  — "  The  order  of 
eternal  life  is  one  thing,  and  the  recklessness  of 
temporal  passions  is  another  thing.  How  can 
you  religiously  observe  the  festival  of  the  mani- 
festation of  our  Lord,  when  you  devoutly  cele- 
brate the  Calends  ?  For  Janus  was  a  man,  the 
founder  of  a  city,  now  called  Janiculurn,  in  whose 
honor  the  Calends  of  January  were  instituted  by 
the  Gentiles.  And  he  sins  who  pays  divine  hon- 
or to  a  dead  man.  Brethren,  let  us  shun  every 
festivity  of  the  Gentiles,  that  when  they  feast 
we  may  fast.  And  in  like  manner  let  us  avoid 
all  conversation  with  the  Jews,  which  is  a  great 
pollution." 

"  How  oddly  this  reads ! "  said  Martin  May. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  minister,  "  with  reading 
it,  almost  I  can  fancy  it  is  the  end  of  the  fourth 
century,  and  that  I  am  at  Milan,  standing  beneath 
the  pulpit  while  Ambrose  preaches,  and  that  he  is 
making  me  afraid  that  Christianity  will  certainly 
be  more  and  more  corrupted  by  Christianity." 

«  St.  Ambrose !  do  you  esteem  him  much  as  a 
writer  ?  " 

"  No  :  nor  do  I  know  him  much.  He  was 
often  and  successfully  opposed  to  men,  whom  per- 
haps I  should  have  judged  more  nearly  right  than 
himself.  But  I  believe  that,  in  his  place  and  age, 


A    TALE. 


321 


and  in  such  way  as  he  thought  was  best,  he  lived 
and  worked  like  a  true  man," 

"  O  these  old,  old  words ! " 

"  Yes,  how  some  men's  voices  keep  echoing 
round  and  round  the  world  with  undying  power ! 
Lasting  on,  from  there  being  in  them  a  some- 
thing immortal  from  the  soul  which  spoke  them  ! 
So  at  least  I  love  to  think." 


21 


322  THORPE 


XXXIX. 

ON  Christmas  eve,  in  the  kitchen  at  the  Dell, 
Martin  May  was  pleased  by  seeing  the  servants 
hang  from  the  ceiling  a  bough  of  mistletoe,  —  an 
evergreen  of  white  berries,  which  grows  parasiti- 
cally  out  of  the  side  of  some  tree.  And  he 
thought  of  how  the  Druids  used  to  go  into  the 
woods,  in  solemn  procession,  to  gather  the  mistle- 
toe with  a  golden  knife.  And  he  remembered 
that  at  York  the  Minster  stands  on  the  site  of 
some  Druidical  structure,  and  that  he  had  read 
somewhere,  that  even  in  the  last  century  there 
used  to  be  a  procession  to  carry  mistletoe  to  the 
cathedral ;  after  which  at  Monk-bar,  Mickle-gate- 
bar,  and  the  other  gates  of  the  city,  there  was 
proclaimed  a  temporary  liberty  and  pardon  for 
all  sorts  of  low  and  dissipated  persons. 

At  seven  o'clock  there  was  placed  on  the  fire 
a  great  log  of  wood,  called  a  Yule-clog.  And 


A    TALE.  323 

then  there  were  lighted  four  tall  candles,  of  double 
the  usual  length.  At  supper-time  there  was  placed 
on  the  table  a  great  bowl  of  what  was  called  fur- 
mety, —  a  condiment  probably  of  Roman  origin, 
and  made  of  milk,  currants,  and  wheat. 

After  Martin  May  had  gone  to  bed  and  to 
sleep,  he  was  suddenly  awoke  by  a  band  of 
musicians,  called  the  waits,  who  played  a  tune 
in  front  of  the  house,  and  then  went  away.  Soon 
afterwards  he  had  a  miserable  dream  of  two  im- 
mense black  gates  which  reached  up  to  the  sky, 
and  which  were  visible  in  the  dark,  they  were  so 
black.  And  from  these  gates  he  could  not  turn 
away ;  for  his  eyes  were  drawn  to  them  quite 
irresistibly.  At  last,  without  their  having  opened, 
it  seemed  as  though  there  had  come  through  them, 
and  were  coming  toward  him,  two  long,  fiery  ser- 
pents, gliding  together,  one  on  each  side  of  a  path. 
At  this  he  awoke  in  a  fright :  and  then  he  heard 
two  boys  underneath  his  window,  finishing  a 
Christmas  carol :  — 

"As  it  fell  out,  upon  a  day, 

Bich  Dives  sickened  and  died ; 
There  came  two  serpents  out  of  hell, 
His  soul  therein  to  guide. 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  brother  Dives, 
And  come  along  with  me  ; 


324 


THORPE, 


For  you  have  a  place  provided  in  hell, 
To  sit  on  a  serpent's  knee." 


Again  and  again,  during  the  night,  he  was 
awakened  by  the  carol-singers.  And  neither  time 
was  he  as  well  pleased  as  the  first.  But  the  last 
time  he  awoke  was  just  at  the  dawn.  And  he  said 
to  himself,  "  This,  then,  is  Christmas  Day  ! "  And 
he  felt  as  though,  in  some  manner,  he  ought  to 
be  more  happy  than  he  was.  Then  suddenly  he 
was  aware  of  a  very  sweet  voice,  that  of  a  young 
woman,  singing  a  very  ancient  carol :  — 

"  He  neither  shall  be  born 
In  housen  nor  in  hall, 
Nor  in  the  place  of  paradise, 
But  in  an  ox's  stall. 

"He  neither  shall  be  rocked 

In  silver  nor  in  gold ; 
But  in  a  wooden  cradle, 
That  rocks  on  the  mould. 

"He  neither  shall  be  clothed 

In  purple  nor  in  pall; 
But  all  in  fair  linen, 
As  are  babies  all." 

On  going  down  stairs,  he  found  that  every  room 
was  decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  And  on  going 
out  of  doors,  he  heard  from  Thorpe  the  bells 
ringing  a  merry  peal,  with  their  six  iron  tongues. 


A    TALE.  325 

It  was  a  bright,  clear  morning,  and  every  thing  was 
white  with  frost.  About  the  house  the  sparrows 
were  thick ;  and  in  the  garden  the  robin  was 
singing  from  tree  to  tree.  Martin  May  now  felt 
the  happiness  of  the  day ;  and,  looking  up  on  high, 
he  thought  there  might  even  be  joy  in  heaven  over 
the  joy  of  earth.  And  he  repeated  to  himself 
these  lines  from  Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity :  — 

"Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time, 
And  let  the  hass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ  blow." 

On  his  way  to  attend  divine  service  at  the 
chapel,  he  supposed  that  at  least  a  hundred  per- 
sons wished  him  a  merry  Christmas.  He  saw 
walking  before  him  Percy  Coke  and  Alice  Hey- 
wood.  In  his  eyes  they  moved  together  as 
though  with  a  glory  round  them.  He  walked 
fast  to  overtake  them.  And  then  he  suddenly 
stood  still,  and  wondered  at  himself.  Yes  !  It 
was  so.  He  was  really  hastening  to  rejoice  with 
the  joyful.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  it  became 
a  thanksgiving  to  God.  For  he  felt  that  now  he 
was  no  longer  a  man  woebegone,  and  likely  to 
be  useless.  And  he  said,  "  That  dear  saint  in 
heaven !  Still  she  draws  all  my  thoughts  and 


THORPE, 

feelings  towards  her.  But  this  void  by  my  side, 
—  this  shadow  that  walks  with  me,  —  it  is  no 
longer  painful.  And  now  almost  I  can  love  to 
feel  it,  as  being  a  memorial  of  her."  And  then  he 
thought  of  his  home  in  America.  And  he  felt 
himself  attracted  towards  it.  And  almost  he  won- 
dered at  how  much  he  now  longed  for  the  sight  of 
what  he  had  left,  abandoned,  hastened  from,  in 
tears  and  wretchedness. 

He  felt  light  of  heart,  and  even  joyous.  He 
saw  a  lark  rise  from  the  ground,  and  he  heard  it 
singing  its  happy,  triumphant  song,  even  when 
it  had  soared  out  of  sight.  And  then  he  remem- 
bered the  despondent  lines  of  the  Minnesinger, 
which  he  had  repeated  to  the  minister,  by  the  side 
of  the  water,  when  the  thrush  was  singing  before 
the  coming  of  the  storm.  And  he  felt  that  now 
he  was  another  man  than  he  was.  And  as  he 
walked  on  towards  the  chapel,  he  thought  of  what 
was  once  a  custom  at  Rheims.  For  on  Christmas 
morning,  in  the  cathedral  of  that  city,  birds  were 
let  loose  out  of  a  cage,  as  emblems  of  what 
Christ  does  for  the  soul,  in  freeing  its  hopes  and 
aspirations  from  imprisonment  by  despair  arid 
sin. 


A    TALE.  327 

-i-«     .. 


• 

XL. 

THE  day  after  Christmas  Day,  in  the  afternoon, 
there  drew  up  before  Mrs.  Gentle's  house  a  pri- 
vate carriage,  with  a  coachman  in  a  gorgeous  liv- 
ery on  the  box,  and  with  a  footman  behind,  also 
in  livery.  There  stepped  from,  the  carriage  a  tall 
gentleman  of  about  forty  years  of  age.  In  man- 
ner he  was  quick  and  conceited.  And  his  limbs 
seemed  to  hang  loosely  in  their  sockets.  He  looked 
at  the  house  contemptuously,  and  then  said,  part- 
ly at  the  gate,  and  partly  as  he  walked  up  the 
alley :  "  Is  this  the  house,  John  ?  Are  you  sure 
you  are  right  ?  Poor  place  for  a  man  like  Coke ! 
Ah,  ah!  This  comes  of  being  a  Radical,  and 
making  speeches  to  the  people.  But  clever  as 
he  thought  himself,  he  was  often  a  great  fool,  — 
a  great  fool.  There  was  Lord  Grandeaux,  who 
thought  to  make  something  of  him,  and  so  invit- 
ed him  to  dinner.  But  he  would  not  go.  Re- 
fused a  lord !  And  now  see  what  comes  of  it !  " 


328  THORPE, 

With  some  little  difficulty  Mrs.  Gentle  consent- 
ed to  let  the  gentleman  see  Mr.  Coke,  who  had 
been  growing  worse  for  the  last  few  days,  and 
was  now  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  parlor. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  you  do  not  know 
me.  Your  room  is  rather  dark.  Do  not  you 
know  me?  Do  not  you  know  me?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Coke,  very  deliberately.  "  You 
are  Mr.  Judas,  —  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are 
Mr.  Jude  Bamforth." 

"  Now  I  will  wager  any  money  you  never  ex- 
pected to  see  me  this  afternoon.  But  I  am  come." 

"  I  see  you  are.  Take  a  seat.  And  excuse 
my  rising.  And  because  I  am  ill,  I  shall  be  glad 
if  you  will  be  brief  in  whatever  you  want  to  say." 

"  Why,  Coke,  you  are  always  ill.  At  least  you 
have  always  looked  so  this  long  while.  Bat  what 

I  want  to  say  is  this.  My  wife  knows  of 

Clever  woman,  my  wife !  But  you  know  her." 

"  No,  I  do  not.  I  did  not  know  you  were  mar- 
ried." 

"  Not  know  it !  Why,  I  married  Peggy  Grey. 
You  remember,  Coke,  how,  ten  years  ago,  our 
house  got  the  better  of  you.  But  Peggy  says 
you  were  not  treated  quite  fairly.  But  you  know 
in  the  way  of  trade,  Coke  " 

"  It  was  not  in  the  way  of  trade." 


A    TALE.  329 

• 

"  Not  in  the  way  of  trade !  Why,  what  else 
could  it  have  been?" 

"  It  was  in  the  way  of  false  witness  and  delib- 
erate swindling.  " 

"  Ah,  well,  well,  trade  is  trade.  And,  after  all, 
if  you  are  in  trade  you  have  got  to  trade." 

"  Sir,  if  there  is  any  sense  of  justice  in  you,  or 
any  religion  " 

"  Religion !  That  is  the  matter  exactly.  You 
see,  I  married  Peggy  Grey.  And  we  set  up  our 
carriage.  And  so  Peggy  said,  to  be  respectable, 
I  ought  to  go  to  church.  So  we  took  a  pew. 
And  I  pay  twenty  pounds  a  year  for  it,  in  Doc- 
tor Thunderby's  church.  Did  you  ever  hear  him, 
Coke  ?  O,  to  hear  him  preach  on  hell  is  enough 
to  make  any  man  religious!  I  never  knew  what 
a  sinner  I  was  till  I  heard  him.  Desperate  sin- 
ners we  all  are,  Coke,  —  horrid  sinners,  —  deserv- 
ing hell  for  any  day's  work,  —  ay,  or  any  min- 
ute's, —  ay,  and  even  for  being  alive,  as  Doctor 
Thunderby  says." 

"  Even  for  your  being  alive,  Mr.  Bamforth !  I 
am  sure  myself  that  I  never  thought  it  of  you. 
But  if  you  believe  it,  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt 
it  of  you.  And  now,  again,  may  I  ask  you  why 
I  have  the  honor  —  the  interruption  —  the  cir- 
cumstance of  a  visit  from  you  ?  " 


330  THORPE, 

"  At  our  church  there  is  vital  religion  preached ; 
and  where  we  sit  in  our  pew  " 

"  Mr.  Bamforth,  I  am  very  ill.  And  in  ten 
minutes  I  shall  go  to  my  bedchamber.  If  the 
subject  be  cotton,  you  can  talk  to  the  point  di- 
rectly. Now  try  to  do  so  on  your  present  busi- 
ness ;  and  let  me  know  it  at  once.  For  what  is 
it  to  me,  your  going  to  church  in  a  carriage,  and 
your  sitting  in  a  pew  at  a  rent  of  twenty  pounds 
a  year  ? " 

"  Well,  then,  Peggy  cannot  be  easy  till  I  have 
got  a  receipt  from  you  for  five  hundred  pounds. 
Ten  years  ago  in  our  house  my  share  was  one 
eighth.  It  was  not  more,  —  not  a  fraction,  not  a 
penny  more.  I  can  prove  it  from  the  books,  any 
time,  anywhere,  to  any  body.  I  say,  Coke,  my 
share  in  our  house  ten  years  ago  was  an  eighth, 
and  no  more.  But  if  it  had  not  been  for  you, 
our  house  would  have  lost  four  thousand  pounds 
by  that  Yorkshireman.  However,  he  chose  to 
fail  in  your  debt,  and  not  in  ours.  And  so  there 
was  a  saving  to  me  of  five  hundred  pounds." 

"  And  you  and  your  partners  vouched  to  me 
for  that  man's  solvency  and  honor!  And  when 
I  had  trusted  him,  on  your  representations,  then 
you  had  him  pay  you  with  my  goods." 

"  Well,   Coke,  it  was   rather  a   close   business. 


A    TALE. 

But  they  were  hard  times  just  then,  very  hard. 
Why,  if  we  could  not  have  got  our  debt  out  of 
that  Yorkshireman,  we  must  have  failed.  And 
when  it  cornes  to  that,  —  whether  I  shall  fail  or 
you  shall  fail,  —  why,  then,  trade  is  trade.  But 
Peggy  is  not  easy  about  it.  You  must  know  her, 
for  she  says  that  she  used  often  to  be  with  the 
landlady  of  the  house  where  you  lodged.  And 
since  we  have  been  to  Doctor  Thunderby's  often 
on  a  Sunday  night,  she  has  talked  about  you. 
But  a  month  ago,  on  a  Monday,  she  mentioned 
our  old  affair  with  you ;  and  when  I  told  her  that 
I  had  heard  from  Mr.  May  that  you  were  very  ill, 
she  said  that  it  would  never  do  for  you  to  die 
with  me  in  your  debt.  Debt !  But  women  can- 
not understand  matters.  Just  as  though  you 
would  not  have  had  the  money  by  law,  if  I  had 
owed  you  a  debt !  But  she  says  she  does  not 
feel  easy  on  the  matter.  And  for  a  month  she  has 
been  asking,  what  is  five  hundred  pounds  to  me." 

"  And  it  is  not  much,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Bamforth, 
Your  house  now  has  four  mills." 

"  Four  mills,  six  warehouses,  and  three  thou- 
sand five  hundred  hands  in  employ.  Energy,  busi- 
ness energy  does  it  all.  Nothing  like  it  in  this 
world !  Every  man  to  his  department !  I  have 
mine ;  Joe  has  his ;  and  Simpkins  his.  We  em- 


THORPE, 

ploy  thirty  clerks.  Think  of  that,  Coke.  Bam- 
forth,  Simpkins  and  Co.,  —  great  house,  very  great 
house !  What  a  cough  you  have  got !  Why  do 
not  you  take  a  box  of  pills,  —  those  pills  with 
the  odd  name  ?  " 

Here  Mr.  Bamforth  rose  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  and  continued,  "  Next  year  we 
shall  be  the  largest  house  in  Lancashire,  Energy, 
energy,  —  that  is  our  way.  There  comes  to  me 
a  man  to  ask  me  to  subscribe  to  a  prison-ref- 
ormation society.  But  I  soon  let  him  know  he 
was  not  going  to  have  a  moment  from  me,  nor 
any  body  else  in  our  employ.  A  man  with  an  in- 
stant to  waste  in  our  warehouse,  —  I  would  dis- 
charge him  in  a  minute." 

"  But  prison  reform,  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  have  been  interested  in  that." 

«  I  ?  Not  I !  What  have  I  to  do  with  a  prison  ? 
What  are  prisons  to  me?  No  matter  of  mine. 
All  the  week  I  have  no  time  for  any  thing  but 
business.  And  on  the  Sabbath  it  is  all  religion. 
Three  times  a  day  we  attend  service,  and  travel 
four  miles  every  time.  Energy,  energy!  That 
is  what  does  it !  It  is  " 

"  Mr.  Bamforth,  I  am  very  ill.  Will  you  sit 
down,  and,  whatever  your  business  is,  prepare  to 
transact  it?" 


A    TALE. 

"  O,  you  want  the  check !  Pen  and  ink !  O, 
there,  they  are,  I  see.  And  you  will  give  me  a  re- 
ceipt. There!  That  is  what  you  will  sign,  Coke." 

"  When  I  have  the  money,  I  will." 

"  Sharp  man,  Coke,  sharp  man !  Well,  now, 
there  is  the  money,  and  there  is  the  receipt." 

"  But  this  receipt  is  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
and  interest  thereon." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  Peggy  says  I  must  bring 
her." 

"  But  you  have  only  given  me  a  check  for  five 
hundred  pounds." 

«  Well,  will  not  that  do  for  you  ? " 

u  Not  if  I  am  to  say  that  I  have  had  the  inter- 
est on  it  besides." 

"  O,  but  you  know  that  I  am  not  obliged  to 
pay  you  any  money  at  all." 

"  Nor  arn  I  obliged  to  receive  it  at  all."  And 
so  saying,  Mr.  Coke  pushed  from  him  the  receipt 
unsigned,  and  the  bank-check  which  had  been 
given  him. 

"  Well,  now,  if  I  pay  you  the  interest,  it  shall 
be  at  the  rate  of  three  per  cent.,  the  same  as  in 
the  government  stocks.  The  three  per  cents,  — 
no  safer  investment  in  the  world ! " 

"  And  has  my  money  been  a  safe  investment 
with  you  ?  " 


334 


THORPE, 


"  No  better  house  than  ours  in  Manchester ! 
None  that  can  get  a  loan  from  the  banks  sooner 
than  we ! " 

"  And  when  you  borrow  at  five  per  cent.,  you 
can  make  twenty  per  cent,  profit." 

"  We  can  if  any  body  can.  Energy,  energy,  — 
it  is  that  that  does  it.  Well,  there  is  a  check 
for  six  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds.  And 
now  give  me  the  receipt.  There  !  And  now 
Peggy  will  be  satisfied.  And  you  are  satisfied, 
Coke.  Are  you  not  ?  Now  it  is  all  clear  between 
us,  is  not  it  ?  Say  so,  say  so." 

"  I  cannot  say  so,  and  I  will  not  say  so,  for  I 
do  not  think  so." 

"  O,  yes.  you  do.  Yes,  you  do.  It  is  all  clear 
you  know,  between  us  now.  Come,  say  so." 

"  I  shall  not  say  so.  I  should  be  wronging 
you,  helping  to  falsify  your  conscience  if  I  did 
say  so.  For  it  is  not  all  clear  between  us.  You 
have  never  acknowledged  the  treachery  of  your 
conduct  towards  me.  And  even  now,  in  making 
restitution  for  your  fraud,  you  defraud  me  again, 
with  giving  me  three  per  cent,  for  interest,  when 
legal  interest  is  at  the  rate  of  five  per  cent.  Your 
conduct  now  is  better  than  I  should  ever  have 
expected  from  you.  But  I  will  not  say  that  you 
are  perfectly  honest  with  me,  or  that  I  think  you 


A    TALE.  335 

stand  innocent  towards  me :  for  I  do  not  think 
you  do." 

"  Come,  Coke,  you  have  got  my  money " 

"  Your  money,  Mr.  Bamforth !  It  is  my  own, 
and  a  very  small  part  of  what  you  ought  to  see 
restored  to  me.  But,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  am 
better  satisfied " 

"  Ah,  well,  well,  you  are  satisfied,  quite  sat- 
isfied." 

"  This  afternoon,  Mr.  Bamforth " 

"  Satisfied  this  afternoon  !  And  now  I  will 
tell  Peggy.  For  that  is  all  she  wants.  Fine 
woman,  clever  woman  !  Though  when  she  wants 
a  thing  done,  right  or  wrong,  she  will  have  it 
done.  She  is  what  I  am  in  trade.  It  is  energy, 
energy  does  it.  Nothing  like  energy,  Coke  ! 
Ah,  there  is  my  carriage !  First-rate  article,  built 
by  Leader  in  Long-acre  !  There  is  some  style 
in  that.  See  how  it  hangs  !  That  is  Peggy's 
taste.  I  say,  Coke,  get  married  when  you  get 
well." 

"  I  am  glad,  Mr.  Bamforth,  there  has  been  so 
much  good  for  you  in  marriage." 

"  O,  ay,  Coke,  get  married.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  clerks  and  junior  partners  to  live  about  in 
lodgings,  and  sport  about  on  Sundays.  But  at 
our  years,  and  when  a  man  has  got  property  to 


336  THORPE 


answer  for,  it  is  time  for  him  to  settle  in  the 
world,  and  to  get  religion, —  vital  religion." 

"  But  does  not  it  interfere  with  trade  ?  " 

"  What !  religion  ?  Not  at  all !  not  at  all !  I 
never  attend  any  week-day  services.  Not  I !  I 
am  principled  against  them.  Sunday  is  the  Sab- 
bath. And  Monday  is  for  business.  And  besides 
twenty  pounds  a  year  for  a  pew,  and  twenty 
pounds  for  this,  that,  and  the  other,  how  could 
I  get  it  all  to  pay  it,  but  for  business  on  Monday 
and  Tuesday,  and  every  hour  all  the  week,  and 
system  and  energy  ?  Energy,  energy,  —  it  will 
do  any  thing  in  this  world." 

"  Especially  with  some  men,  and  when  it  is 
not  restrained  by  fears,  —  when  it  is  not  restrict- 
ed by " 

"  Restricted  energy  is  nothing,  —  nothing.  Let 
me  see  my  object,  and  go  straight  for  it,  and  get 
it.  That  is  energy,  Coke,  my  energy.  And  I 
say  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  a  man.  It  is  char- 
acter, and  business,  and  good  profits,  and  a  for- 
tune perhaps  in  five  years." 

"  And  perhaps  a  loss  of  his  spirit  for  ever,"  said 
Mr.  Coke,  solemnly. 

"  Why,  a  man  gets  worn  out  with  it.  But 
still  energy  is  energy,  and  there  is  nothing  like  it." 

Mr.    Bamforth    had    left  the   house,   when    Mr. 


A    TALE.  337 

Coke  had  him  called  back,  and  on  his  entering 
the  room,  Mr.  Coke  said  to  him,  "  I  want  to  say 
to  you  one  thing  more  on  this  matter  between 
us." 

"  No 'more  money,  Coke!  No  more  money! 
I  cannot  afford  it.  I  say,  I  cannot  afford  it. 
And  you  know  there  is  not  one  of  my  old  part- 
ners who  has  done  as  much  for  you  as  I  have. 
Is  there  now  ?  And  besides,  money  is  scarce 
now,  very  scarce.  Six  hundred  and  seventy-five 
pounds  !  Think  of  that,  Coke." 

"  I  do  think  of  it.  And  it  is  a  great  sum  as 
coming  from  you.  But  possibly  the  time  may 
come,  when  you  will  think  it  a  little  thing.  And 
perhaps  when  I  am  dead,  you  will  be  desirous  to 
make  me  perfect  restitution.  And  you  will  not 
be  able  to  have  me  answer  you,  when  you  can 
only  come  to  my  grave  to  talk  with  me.  Per- 
haps some  time  you  will  wish  that  you  had  ac- 
knowledged your  fraud  upon  me,  —  perhaps  even 
wish  this  check  had  been  for  a  larger  amount. 
It  may  happen  that  you  may  desire  my  entire 
forgiveness,  when  I  shall  not  be  here  to  give  it 
you.  And  so,  against  you  want  it,  I  now  give 
it  you  freely,  on  condition  that  you  will  be  gen- 
erous with  some  worthy  man,  up  to  the  amount 
of  what  more  money  you  may  owe  me.  And  if 
22 


338  THORPE, 

it  ever  should  happen  to  you  to  lose  your  fortune, 
then  think  at  that  time  that  you  are  not  only 
forgiven,  but  pitied.  Good  by,  Bamforth." 

Mr.  Bamforth,  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
stood  hesitating  for  a  moment  whether  or  not 
to  enlarge  the  amount  of  the  check  which  he  had 
given.  But  something  of  pride  rose  up  in  his 
mind  to  hinder  him.  And  when  Mr.  Coke  ceased 
speaking,  he  left  the  room,  and  as  he  went  to  his 
coach  he  wiped  away  a  tear,  and  said,  "  A  queer 
fellow,  that  Coke,  —  a  queer  fellow!  And  so  he 
always  was.  But  however,  Peggy  will  be  glad 
with  what  I  have  done.  Well,  I  have  done  that 
much,  at  least.  I  have  done  that  much.  And  I 
can  do  more,  if  I  like,  —  some  time  when  I  like. 
Cannot  I  ?  For  who  is  there  to  hinder  me  ?  what 
is  to  hinder  me  ?  " 


A    TALE.  339 


XLI. 

MR.  COKE  told  the  minister  of  Mr.  Bamforth's 
visit,  though  not  of  quite  all  that  had  passed  at 
it,  and  said,  "  His  visit  was  very  painful  to  me, 
while  it  lasted,  but  yet  I  find  it  pleasant  to  re- 
member. It  is  not  that  the  money  pleases  me 
much  ;  nor  is  it  that  I  was  pleased  with  either 
his  face  or  his  talk ;  and  yet  in  some  way,  from 
that  interview  with  him,  I  feel  myself  more  cheer- 
ful, and  even  stronger  for  death.  But,  Mr.  Lin- 
gard,  I  do  not  know  why  I  should." 

"  Naturally,  in  any  one,  in  any  way,  goodness 
cheers  us.  But  besides  that,  every  righteous  ac- 
tion makes  us  sensible  of  the  moral  order  of  the 
universe.  Jude  Bamforth  returned  you  that  mon- 
ey; and  all  the  more  unlikely  he  was  to  have 
done  so,  all  the  more  must  his  manner  and  tone 
have  made  you  feel  the  motives  which  were  act- 
ing upon  him,  —  fear  of  the  invisible  that  ap- 


340  .  THORPE, 

palled  him,  and  the  desire  to  be  right  with  God 
that  drew  him." 

-*  Yes,  probably,  that  is  to  say,  perhaps  ;  for  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  knew  what  his  motives  were. 
But  there  is  a  great  truth  in  what  you  were  say- 
ing, I  think  ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  the  real  ac- 
count of  what  I  feel." 

"  An  act  of  liking  may  involve  in  it  no  more 
than  two  persons.  But  it  is  not  so  with  an  act 
of  justice ;  because  in  that  there  are  concerned, 
not  merely  the  two  persons  between  whom  the 
justice  is  done,  but  also  God,  whose  watchful  eye 
is  the  sanction  of  it.  When  a  man  acts  honestly, 
one  feels  that  he  does  so  because  of  his  having 
some  feeling  of  justice  and  judgment,  which  are 
unearthly  things,  and  are  the  foundations  of 
God's  throne.  Any  noble  thing  I  witness,  —  every 
strenuous  act  of  honesty,  every  instance  of  great 
love,  every  holy  struggle,  —  makes  me  thrill  with 
a  spirit  that  is  consciously  immortal." 

"  That  is  worth  thinking  of,  Mr.  Lingard." 

"  Every  thing  which  exceeds  the  righteousness 
of  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  every  truly  right- 
eous deed,  is  a  something  not  of  the  world,  — 
not  of  this  mere  world  of  dust,  earth  and  food 
and  day  and  night ;  and  therefore  it  is  a  prophecy 
and  a  testimony  of  the  infinite,  —  a  something 


A    TALE.  341 

with  the  sound  of  which  on  earth  one  feels  that 
even  the  heavens  may  echo." 

"  The  nearer  I  approach  the  next  world,"  said 
Mr.  Coke,  "  the  more  do  I  find  myself  dying  to 
this  world.  I  do  not  merely  mean  dying  to  its 
business,  for  which  I  have  no  longer  any  head, 
—  nor  dying  to  its  wide  fields  and  steep  hill-sides, 
for  which  I  have  no  longer  any  feet, —  nor  dying 
to  its  fruits,  nutritious  and  luscious,  for  which  I 
have  no  longer  any  appetite,  —  nor  dying  to  its 
weather,  clear  and  calm  one  day,  and  stormy  an- 
other, for  which  I  have  now  little  interest.  But  I 
mean  that  I  am  dying  daily  more  and  more  to 
many  a  recollection  and  purpose  of  my  own  past 
life.  Six  months  ago  it  was  a  pleasure  to  me 
to  recollect  things  in  which  now  I  have  no  inter- 
est, —  the  various  steps  by  which  I  accomplished 
some  political  object, — the  statements,  the  argu- 
ments, the  retorts,  by  which  I  vanquished  an  op- 
ponent,—  scenes  of  which  I  have  been  a  witness 
in  the  city,  collisions  between  the  military  and 
the  people,  and  a  wicked  man  on  a  public  plat- 
form, white  with  the  sudden  detection  of  his  wide 
and  cruel  machinations,  — journeys  which  I  have 
made  in  France,  and  Scotland,  and  Ireland, — 
mountains,  from  whose  tops  I  have  looked  on 
cities  lying  like  specks  upon  the  plains  below, — 


342  THORPE, 

the  look  and  the  terror  of  a  storm  at  sea,  —  and 
books  which  I  have  read,  and  by  which  one  is  per- 
mitted to  be  a  safe  witness  of  bloody  revolutions, 
a  joyous  guest  at  marriage-feasts,  a  fellow-traveller 
with  Humboldt,  a  fellow-student  with  Niebuhr,  a 
companion  with  great  poets,  in  their  seasons  of 
high  rapture,  and  a  -spectator  of  what  is  most 
comic  and  whatever  is  most  tragic  in  the  life  to- 
gether of  us  men.  But  now  they  do  not  stir  me 
at  all,  — things  which  once  so  moved  me  to  ad- 
miration and  laughter  artd  curiosity,  and  wonder 
and  terror  and  indignation." 

"  But  do  not  you  find,  Mr.  Coke,  that  there  are 
some  things  which  you  remember  now  more  viv- 
idly than  you  used  to  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  are  so.  Now,  when  I  think  of  the 
past,  the  recollections  which  rise  before  me  most 
vividly  are  of  such  incidents  as  I  felt  tenderly,  — 
my  mother  in  the  garden,  calling  me  to  walk  with 
her,  —  the  young  amazement  with  which  my  soul 
first  woke  up  to  the  knowledge  of  God,  by  my 
happening  once  to  discover  my  grandfather  pray- 
ing in  secret,  —  and  the  times  of  earnest,  quiet  con- 
versation which  I  had  with  my  betrothed  in  winter 
by  the  fireside,  and  in  summer  among  the  trees." 

"  Your  heart  shall  live  for  ever,  says  the  Psalm- 
ist. Those  are  beautiful  words  at  all  times,  but 


A    TALE.  343 

against  death  they  must  sound  and  feel  so  sweet 
as  well  as  true.  The  acclamations  of  a  vast  mul- 
titude may  not  reach  through  the  ear  of  a  dying 
man ;  and  he  may  be  deaf  to  the  echoes  of  his 
fame  reverberating  about  him ;  and  yet  there  may 
be  living  on  in  his  heart,  distinctly  audible  to  his 
inward  ear,  the  whispers  of  his  mother's  love." 

"  More  and  more  real  life  feels  against  death," 
said  Mr.  Coke. 

"  Making  one  feel,"  said  the  minister,  "  that 
really  the  tomb  is  the  House  of  the  Living,  as  the 
Jews  call  it." 

"  House  of  the  Living !  A  happy  phrase  !  But 
with  death's  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  O,  what 
things  a  man  could  say  and  write,  if  only  he  were 
strong  enough." 

The  minister  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  was 
almost  always  his  custom  when  he  was  about  to 
make  a  quotation ;  and  then  he  said :  "  In  one  of 
the  dialogues  of  Plato,  an  old  man  remarks  to 
Socrates,  '  Know  this  well,  that,  when  any  one 
thinks  himself  near  death,  he  fears  and  reflects 
about  things  which  had  never  occurred  to  him  be- 
fore.' But  how  different  from  this  old  man's  sen- 
timent must  have  been  the  feeling  of  St.  Theresa, 
who  said  that  all  her  hope  was  in  death,  and  that 
she  was  dying  of  regret  that  she  could  not  die." 


344 


THORPE, 


"  But  were  those  words  of  hers  uttered  when 
she  was  old  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

"  And  myself  I  should  have  been  sure  not," 
said  Mr.  Coke. 

"  No,  they  were  not  spoken  in  any  nearness 
to  death,  but  were  written  by  her  in  a  little  book 
which  she  published.  Truer  to  nature,  perhaps, 
were  the  words  of  Mere  Angelique  on  her  death- 
bed, when  she  told  the  weeping  nuns,  that,  though 
she  had  had  death  in  her  mind  for  more  than  fifty 
years,  yet  all  her  serious  thoughts  had  been  nothing 
to  the  unspeakable  awfulness  of  what  she  then  felt. 
For,  said  she,  as  the  soul  stands  between  time  and 
eternity,  ready  to  ascend  to  God,  the  earth  itself 
sinks  and  dwindles  into  a  mere  speck." 

"  How  true  that  is,  Mr.  Lingard,  how  true  that 
is  !  For,  as  I  was  telling  you  just  now,  it  is  sunk 
away  from  about  me,  so  much  of  what  was  once 
my  world.  The  words  of  those  who  have  gone 
through  that  gate  of  death  at  which  I  am  now 
waiting,  —  they  have  such  an  interest  for  me  now, 
tender,  deep,  and  of  a  kind  such  as  I  have  never 
felt  before.  Fellow-creatures  men  were  to  me 
while  I  was  strong  and  busy,  but  now  they  are 
my  fellow-pilgrims ;  and  in  the  gateway  of  death 
we  are  so  near  one  another." 


A    TALE.  345 

"  A  gateway,  a  passage,  —  what  a  universal 
emblem  of  death  that  is !  Says  a  French  writer, 
*  Natural  death  is  only  a  passage  from  God  to  God, 
from  one  paradise  to  another.'  And  one  who  is 
a  great  authority  on  the  significance  of  Catholic 
emblems  writes  in  one  of  his  works,  that  in  death 
we  pass  from  one  Church  to  another,  from  the 
Church  Militant  to  the  Church  Triumphant." 

"  A  passage  dark,  very  dark,  though  with  a 
daystar  shining  through  it !  A  dark,  dark  gate- 
way !  And  we  meet  at  it,  —  children,  youths, 
and  patriarchs ;  and  all  of  us  of  an  age,  in  some 
sense.  There  are  reasons  for  which  I  could  wish 
to  continue  to  live ;  but  they  are  not  for  myself,  I  . 
think.  Yet  this  indifference  about  living  is  not  a 
want  of  perception  as  to  the  uses  of  life,  I  hope." 

"  O,  no,  I  do  not  think  it  is.  The  other  day  I 
met  with  a  curious  quotation  from  Henry  Suso, 
in  which  he  remarks  that  our  blessed  Saviour 
chose  not  to  protract  his  life  beyond  its  flower ; 
while  it  was  an  Antipope  who  prolonged  the 
period  of  what  was  his  usurpation  beyond  the 
years  of  St.  Peter." 

"  I  like  that.  And  I  like  that  evidence  of  self- 
possession  amid  strange  experiences,  which  is 
betokened  by  the  blending  together  of  the  solemn 
and  the  humorous,  in  the  manner  of  some  of  the 


346  THORPE, 

last  words  of  Socrates.  How  calm  he  was  while 
dying,  even  in  his  heathen  darkness !  But  some 
of  us  Christians  have  known  more  than  he  did 
only  to  trust  less.  However,  I  do  not  wonder  at 
the  misgivings  in  death  to  which  some  men  have 
confessed.  For  already  one  feels  how  surely  the 
soul  will  cease  living  in  many  a  worldly  direc- 
tion ;  while  of  how  it  will  live  beyond  death 
there  is  so  little  to  be  known,  there  is  so  very 
little  revealed.  Myself  I  do  not  feel  this  to  be 
any  manner  of  trouble.  But  I  suppose,  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  death,  there  have  been  persons  who 

have  been  troubled  — " 

"  Because,"  said  the  minister,  "  because  they 
did  not  consider,  like  Montaigne,  that  we  all  come 
to  death  as  apprentices,  and  not  as  masters ;  and 
because,  also,  they  did  not  reason  like  Luther. 
For  one  day,  at  his  table,  the  Reformer  said 
that  he  understood  but  little  of  what  the  manner 
of  the  next  life  would  be,  just  in  the  same  way 
as  he  little  knew  how  he  should  afterwards  eat , 
and  drink  and  live,  while  he  was  sucking  upon 
his  mother's  breasts." 


A    TALE.  347 


XLII. 

AT  the  Parsonage,  on  the  last  day  of  the  year, 
in  the  evening,  there  sat  round  the  fire  in  the 
study  Martin  May,  Percy  Coke,  and  the  minister. 

"  Now  I  am  where  the  Pilgrims  went  from,  — 
some  of  them.  And  I  shall  be  where  they  went 
to,  in  a  month,  I  hope." 

"  At  the  ground  they  went  to,"  said  Percy  Coke. 
"  But  since  their  landing  on  it  the  soil  has  be- 
come the  foundation  of  cities,  and  institutions, 
and  things  of  immortal  promise.  And  the  Eng- 
land from  which  they  emigrated,  —  how  changed 
that  is ! " 

"  It  is,  and  it  is  not ;  both.  A  Pilgrim  Father 
would  not  find  much  which  he  would  recognize, 

O  " 

if  he  should  walk  about  .London,  grown  almost 
to  be  a  kingdom  in  itself;  or  if  he  could  see  Liv- 
erpool, bordered  now  with  a  forest  of  masts,  in- 
stead of  shallow  water  almost  stagnant;  or  if  he 


348  THORPE, 

should  be  shown  a  cotton-mill,  or  be  taken  into 
some  iron-works,  or  be  lowered  into  a  mine.  Nor 
would  he  recognize  the  Great  Britain  of  his  day 
in  such  terms  as  would  describe  the  British  Em- 
pire as  it  now  is,  in  the  North  and  the  South, 
and  the  East  and  the  West,  —  widening  over  the 
traces  of  the  red  man  in  Australia,  and  the  ruins 
of  ancient  thrones  in  the  interior  of  Asia.  Nor, 
were  he  taken  to  hear  a  lecture  on  geology  or 
chemistry,  would  he  recognize  English  thought  in 
any  thing  he  would  hear.  And  yet  it  is  still  here, 
the  England  of  his  day." 

"  Where,  Mr.  May,  where  ? "  inquired  Percy 
Coke. 

"  In  the  villages,  and  some  of  the  quieter  of  the 
small  towns,  and  in  the  religion,  the  habits  of 
thought,  and  the  churches  of  the  Congregation- 
alists.  As  a  small  illustration  of  my  meaning,  I 
may  say  that  in  this  town  of  Thorpe  there  are  in 
daily  use  many  words  which  your  English  critics, 
the  unwiser  of  them,  deride  as  American  inven- 
tions, when  heard  from  across  the  Atlantic.  Cer- 
tainly I  did  not  expect  to  find  here  what  I  have. 
From  Boston  or  New.  York  they  are  distinctly 
visible,  all  over  England,  —  the  towers  of  feudal- 
ism, and  the  spires  of  the  Established  Church, 
and  the  broad  roofs  of  the  royal  palaces,  —  and  the 


A    TALE.  349 

smoke  that  goes  up  from  Lancashire  and  Staf- 
fordshire, —  and  the  light  that  is  reflected  above 
London  from  the  midnight  sky.  But  to  me  it 
was  quite  unexpected  to  find  here,  amongst  feudal 
institutions,  men  walking  and  talking  like  John 
Cotton,  or  like  Endicott,  —  and  people  living  al- 
most as  much  apart  from  some  English  institu- 
tions as  the  Americans  themselves." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  asked  Percy  Coke,  in  a 
tone  of  doubt. 

"  While  you  were  a  Tory,  Mr.  Percy,  do  you 
remember  many  times  to  have  met  in  friendly 
company  with  a  Nonconformist  ?  Or  did  you 
ever  know  one  of  your  acquaintance  have  a  Dis- 
senter as  a  friend?  I  am  sure  you  never  did." 

"  It  is  matter  of  astonishment,"  said  the  min- 
ister, "  indeed  it  is  wonderful,  in  the  same  town, 
generation  after  generation,  how  distinct  they  have 
kept  themselves,  —  the  Tories,  as  they  are  now 
called,  and  the  representatives  of  the  Puritans. 
It  is  as  though,  on  hearing  of  the  battle  of  Naseby, 
or,  more  truly,  of  the  accession  of  George  the  First 
to  the  throne,  they  had  laid  down  their  arms,  and 
stood  towards  one  another,  ever  since,  hostile  and 
silent.  To  a  great  extent  my  congregation  is 
composed  of  families  which  furnished  troopers  to 
Oliver  Cromwell  two  hundred  years  ago.  And 


350 


THORPE, 


at  that  time  the  two  Royalist  leaders  in  this  neigh- 
borhood were  Wilmot  and  Burleigh,  —  and  their 
descendants  are  still  of  the  same  old  party." 

"  Across  England,"  said  Martin  May,  "  there 
may  well  have  been  many  and  many  a  strong 
band  to  hold  it  together,  with  such  a  gulf  through- 
out it  as  there  is  between  the  Church  established 
by  law  and  the  Church  of  the  Dissenters.  This 
question  of  an  establisment,  —  it  separates  new 
and  old  friends  more  widely  than  the  Atlantic  or 
the  Alps,  or  a  great  crime.  But  what  amazes  me 
is  to  see  the  two  great  political  parties  of  England 
playing  their  artillery  at  one  another  across  a 
line  of  separation  occasioned  by  Puritanism  nearly 
two  hundred  years  ago.  While  from  all  around, 
millions  and  millions  are  pressing  into  the  civil 
war,  with  passions  of  their  own,  and  new  objects. 
Still  there  are  heard  all  about  the  war-cries  of  the 
last  century,  '  Church  and  State,'  and  its  op- 
posite, 'Civil  and  Religious  Liberty,  all  the  world 
over.'  But  now,  instead  of  five,  there  are  twenty 
millions  of  people  in  this  island,  —  most  of  them 
ignorant  and  hungry.  A  speech  on  civil  and 
religious  liberty,  —  what  is  this  to  a  man  who  is 
hungry,  and  who  does  not  see  how  or  where  he 
is  to  get  a  loaf  of  bread  to  eat  ?  '  Church  and 
State ! '  —  why  should  a  man  shout  this,  with 


A    TALE.  351 

whom  the  great  object  is  to  find  a  shop  to  work 
at?  Twenty  millions  living  on  the  same  little 
island  on  which  five  once  did!  They  have  very 
different  troubles,  dangers,  wants,  they  twenty, 
from  what  the  five  had ! " 

"  Ah,  Mr.  May,  you  have  seen  further  into  our 
difficulties  than  most  of  us  have  ourselves." 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  seen  England 
as  I  have.  For  in  twenty  or  thirty  years  there 
will  be  a  change  over  all  the  country,  greater  than 
that  of  the  whole  eighteenth  century.  Even  now, 
every  day,  there  is  change  going  on  fast,  from  the 
increasing  circulation  of  newspapers,  travel  by  the 
railway,  and  the  diffusion  of  education.  Fifty 
years  hence,  perhaps,  it  will  be  almost  incredible, 
that,  by  going  out  of  one  county  into  another, 
you  could  go  from  one  dialect  to  another,  so  dis- 
tinct as  to  sound  like  a  different  language.  And 
how  many  will  there  then  be  found,  of  whom  it 
will  be  probable  that  neither  they  nor  any  one 
of  their  forefathers,  for  hundreds  of  years,  were 
ever  forty,  or  even  twenty,  miles  away  from  their 
native  place  ?  And  by  that  time,  too,  how  many 
of  the  ancient  customs,  which  are  dwindling  here 
now,  will  be  extinct  !  How  many  an  old  su- 
perstition, not  believed  even  now,  will  then  be 
utterly  forgotten!  And  of  the  different'  classes 


352  THORPE, 

toward  one  another,  for  better  and  for  worse,  how 
much  of  the  old  feeling  will  be  changed !  Duke 
and  peasant,  language  and  mental  tone,  politics 
and  ignorance,  —  it  will  all  be  changed,  —  Eng- 
land all,  from  the  monarch  on  the  throne  to  the 
miner  in  the  pit,  in  the  dark !  And  by  that  time 
your  Church  will  have  ceased  to  be  called  Presby- 
terian, perhaps.  For  even  now  it  is  almost  the 
last  of  its  name,  I  think." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  minister.  "  For  al- 
ready much  that  was  distinctive  of  the  old  Eng- 
lish character  is  ceasing." 

"  Such  things,"  said  Martin  May,  "  especially, 
as  do  not  get  written  of.  But  yet  which  are 
very  important.  And  from  noticing  them  I  have 
thought  that  I  have  learned  much." 

"  You  have  done,"  said  the  minister,  "  you  have 
done  like  John  of  Salisbury,  who  said  that  some 
things  which  he  had  not  found  in  books  he  had 
gathered  from  the  daily  use  and  experience  of 
things,  as  though  from  a  certain  history  of  man- 
ners. But  on  the  whole  you  think  of  English  in- 
fluences as  affecting  character " 

"  That  they  are  most  diverse ;  and  even  of  the 
most  opposite  natures,  —  some  most  genial,  and 
some  most  unhappy.  On  one  and  the  same  tree, 
by  strange  grafting  of  the  same  old  English  stock, 


A    TALE.  353 

are  ripened  some  of  the  best  fruits  of  freedom, 
and  some  of  the  worst  fruits  of  oppression,  and 
the  fruits  of  hypocrisy,  —  fair  and  hateful,  and  like 
apples  of  Sodom." 

"  You  have  seen  something,"  said  Percy  Coke, 
"  of  the  England  of  the  great  deeds,  and  the  great 
men,  and  the  great  past,  —  perhaps  as  much  as 
at  all  survives.  For  it  is  not  common  now,  as  it 
was  a  hundred  years  ago,  that  state  of  mind,  of 
the  nature  of  faith,  by  which  a  man  was  patri- 
otic and  devout ;  and  was  unenvious  in  his  walk 
in  life,  because  of  his  having  an  eye  to  the  ranks 
that  are  higher  than  the  highest  human  ranks,  — 
the  hierarchy  of  heaven." 

"  Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  I  do  not  find,  — 
that  old  spirit.  And,  excepting  our  friend  here, 
I  have  not  met  one  man  of  what  I  may  call  fear- 
less faith." 

"  Ah,  so  it  is,"  answered  Percy  Coke.  "  And 
of  those  who  ought  to  be  strong  to  speak  the 
words  of  eternal  life,  how  many  there  are  who 
are  lost  in  the  desert !  Water  of  life,  —  they  need 
it,  they  want  it,  and  they  desperately  dig  for  it 
in  the  sands,  along  with  Jeremy  Bentham ;  or 
along  with  the  German  Hegel,  they  keep  jour- 
neying after  the  mirage ;  or  in  despair  they  return 
to  men  who  stand  by  cisterns  of  their  own  hew- 

23 


354 


THORPE, 


ing,  —  cisterns  now  broken,  and  mere  remembran- 
cers of  water." 

"  But  evermore,"  said  the  minister,  "  the  water 
of  everlasting  life  still  keeps  springing  up  from 
the  fountain  of  eighteen  hundred  years  ago.  And 
always  ano|  easily  it  is  to  be  found  by  the  hum- 
ble, though  certainly  only  by  them,  sometimes. 
And  perhaps  now,  at  this  time,  it  is  so." 

"  The  end  of  the  year  !  "  said  Martin  May. 
"  It  is  so  solemn,  that  it  makes  many  another 
thing  feel  so  unreal.  A  strange  time  this,  in 
which  for  a  man  to  have  to  grow  earnest  in 
soul ;  while  old  opinions  are  dying  out,  and  old 
usages  are  ceasing;  and  with  fierce  worldly  con- 
troversies about  him,  drawing  him  into  their  folly 
and  bitterness." 

"  But  an  age  not  without  God,"  replied  Percy 
Coke,  "  and  so  not  without  newness  of  life  being 
possible  in  it.  Do  not  you  think  so,  Mr.  Lingard  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  yet  I  think  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged that  a  man  can  better  be  religious  in  some 
places  and  some  ages  than  others,  —  better  here, 
I  think,  than  in  Manchester,  and  perhaps  better 
here  now  than  twenty  years  hence,  —  when  it 
will  have  become  modern  bustle,  this  ancient 
quiet,  which  is  almost  akin  to  religion.  But  not 
that  I  would  speak  in  this  way  positively ! " 


A    TALE.  355 

"  O,  no  !  "  said  Percy  Coke.  "  For  surely,  sure- 
ly it  waits  us,  —  the  Church  of  the  Future,  with 
humility  for  its  doorway,  and  the  felt  presence 
of  God  inside,  for  a  new  —  or  rather  a  newness 
of  revelation.  Though  perhaps  there  will  be  need- 
ed—  what  will  be  presented,  it  is  to  be  hoped  — 
guides  by  whom  men  may  be  brought  back  from 
the  bewilderments  they  are  lost  in,  and  the  idol- 
atries into  which  their  opinions  are  turning." 

"  Walk  in  the  Spirit,  —  is  the  direction  of  the 
Apostle.  But  that  walking  is  the  difficulty.  So 
hard,  so  very  hard,  it  often  is !  Though  I  sup- 
pose it  is  to  keep  him  in  a  wrestle,  and  wakeful 
and  strong,  that  almost  every  man  would  seem 
to  have  his  one  folly.  Yes,  Mr.  May,  I  have. 
And  it  is  one  which  perhaps  nobody  guesses  at, 
though  so  often  it  is  anguish  and  tears  for  me. 
But  what  was  I  saying  ?  O,  that  always  the 
Spirit  does  wait  on  those  who  are  willing  to  walk 
by  it,  and  under  God  and  Christ  always  will." 

"  Yes,  it  is  so  promised,"  said  Martin  May,  "  and 
I  believe  that,  for  comfort  and  peace  at  least,  my- 
self I  have  experienced  what  verifies  the  promise 
for  me  ;  though  no  long  while  ago  I  was  almost 
in  the  same  case  with  certain  disciples  whom  Paul 
found  at  Ephesus,  and  who  said  that  they  had 
not  so  much  as  heard  whether  there  was  any 
Holy  Spirit." 


356  THORPE 


"  And,"  continued  the  minister,  "  I  arn  surround- 
ed with  things  pleasant  and  vexatious,  —  things 
that  are  duties  for  me,  and  some  that  are  pleas- 
ures. And  amidst  these  my  walk  may  be  in  the 
Spirit ;  unconsciously  so,  for  the  most  part,  but 
every  now  and  then  sensibly  so,  by  my  feeling 
myself  urged  to  holiness  beyond  my  inclinations." 

"  It  occurs  to  me  just  now,  how  you  found  me 
on  the  river-side,  the  first  time  I  had  any  conver- 
sation with  you.  So  differently  I  feel  now  to 
what  I  did  then.  To  me  now  it  would  be  so 
dreadful  to  believe  that  it  was  taken,  withheld 
from  me,  —  the  Holy  Spirit,  —  and  that  there  was 
over  me  no  holy  guidance  ever  to  be  felt  on  being 
prayed  for,  —  and  within  me  no  source  of  thought 
holier  than  my  own  corrupt  heart." 

"  But  now,"  continued  the  minister,  "  now  to 
him  that  hath,  there  is  more  given.  And  to  him 
who  does  walk  in  the  Holy  Spirit,  all  outward 
things  are  spiritual  helps.  And  the  Spirit  of  God 
makes  itself  felt,  not  only  from  within  us,  but  also 
by  things  that  border  our  paths,  —  that  meet  us 
on  our  walks,  —  that  are  with  us  in  our  homes. 
And  the  Holy  Spirit,  —  it  influences  us  not  through 
the  Bible  only,  but  also  through  every  good  book, 
—  not  through  Sabbaths  only,  but  through  the 
cold,  pure  beauty  of  sunrise,  and  through  the 


A    TALE.  357 

grandeur  with  which  the  sun  sets,  and  through 
the  awfulness  of  the  dark.  Yes,  it  influences  us, 
does  that  Spirit,  through  the  success  which 
rejoices  us,  and  the  failure  which  humbles  us, 
through  the  public  controversies  in  which  we 
have  to  share,  and  through  words  tenderly  and 
wisely  spoken  by  our  friends,  and  through  the 
ongoing  of  time,  as  it  enlightens  and  changes  us. 
And,  Mr.  Percy,  I  believe  this,  —  that  while  we 
are  willing  to  walk  in  the  Spirit,  we  are  being 
led  into  the  knowledge  of  all  truth,  —  all  spiritual 
Christian  truth,  —  into  the  secrets  of  the  soul's 
growth  in  grace,  and  into  the  right  faith  as  to 
the  way  of  God's  love  and  watchfulness  for  the 
soul.  If  any  intelligent  peasant  would  walk  in 
the  Spirit  truly  and  joyfully,  and  then  say  what 
he  saw  and  felt,  1  believe  there  would  come  from 
his  lips  holier  words  than  are  preached  in  this 
town  at  least.  And  the  scholar  who  should  walk 
in  the  Spirit,  and  speak  his  thoughts,  would  be,  if 
not  a  prophet,  then  certainly  now  the  first  man 
after  the  least  of  the  prophets." 


358 


THORPE, 


XLIII. 

NEW  Year's  morning!  O  the  hopefulness  of 
it  for  some,  and  O  the  thoughtfulness  of  it  for 
others !  New,  and  new,  and  new,  —  so  life  al- 
ways is:  but  it  feels  so  one  day  in  the  year  be- 
yond all  other  days,  because  of  people  agreeing 
on  that  one  day  to  say  to  one  another,  "  A  happy 
new  year  to  you !  " 

This  morning  Martin  May  left  the  Dell  for 
Manchester,  on  his  return  home.  On  his  way 
past  Thorpe,  many  persons  whom  he  met,  one  af- 
ter another,  wished  him  a  happy  new  year.  And 
it  occurred  to  him,  that  he  had  read  this  very  wish 
on  a  piece  of  old  Roman  pottery  from  Hercula- 
neum.  And  while  he  was  thinking  of  this,  he 
heard  the  church  clock  strike  nine. 

"  Nine  o'clock  of  New  Year's  morning,"  said 
he,  looking  about  him.  "  And  this  is  my  last  look 
at  Thorpe.  How  I  should  like  to  have  just  such 


A    TALE.  359 

a  glance  at  my  friends,  —  all  of  them,  —  and 
know  just  at  this  hour  what  they  are  thinking 
and  doing!  It  will  be  five  years  before  I  can 
hope  to  see  any  of  them  again.  Five  years,  — 
five  times  a  year  of  days !  O,  what  chances  for 
death!  But  myself,  grown  healthy  and  cheerful 
and  strong,  and  now  on  my  way  home,  I  ought 
to  be  more  hopeful.  And  I  will  be.  And  now 
one  farewell  look  at  Thorpe,  and  then  I  shall  be 
out  of  sight  of  it.  But  yet  I  wish  I  could  have 
just  one  glance  at  my  acquaintances  at  this  hour." 

Nine  o'clock,  —  and  Jude  Bamforth,  eager  and 
successful,  had  just  concluded  a  good  bargain,  and 
was  saying  to  himself  exultingly,  "  Energy,  energy, 
—  it  is  energy  that  does  it. 

Nine  o'clock,  —  and  Mr.  Coke  was  murmuring 
his  last  words,  "  And  so  from  her  to  the  God  that 
sees  her."  For  he  had  grown  suddenly  worse 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  before,  and  towards 
the  morning  had  become  delirious. 

Nine  o'clock,  —  and,  by  the  death-bed  of  nis 
uncle,  Percy  Coke  was  having  his  soul  drawn  in- 
to such  feelings,  and  into  such  an  attitude  before 
God,  as  the  Spirit  itself  bears  witness  with,  —  ten- 
derly, persuasively,  most  solemnly.  And  there 
came  into  his  mind,  that  he  had  read  somewhere, 
that,  for  belief  in  an  hereafter,  one  needs  only  to 


360  THORPE, 

have  a  dead  body  to  look  at,  and  to  believe  in 
God.  "  But,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  it  is  only 
through  Christ,  that  faith,  a  sufficing  faith,  is  pos- 
sible here.  It  is  only  a  God  watching  us  with 
the  eyes  of  Jesus  Christ,  —  only  God  in  Christ,  — 
that  one  can  think  of,  and  yearn  to,  and  believe 
in,  here." 

Nine  o'clock,  —  and  at  this  hour  the  minister 
was  meditating  on  the  sermon  which  he  was 
composing  for  the  first  Sunday  of  the  New  Year. 
And  because  he  was  aware  that  the  New  Year's 
discourse  often  gets  a  little  more  than  the  usual 
attention  from  a  congregation  ;  and  because  it  is 
a  sermon  in  which  the  days  that  are  past  seem 
to  be  speaking  to  the  days  that  are  coming ;  there- 
fore the  minister  was  intending  to  have  in  his 
sermon,  if  not  something  for  every  body,  yet  some- 
thing or  other  of  which  almost  every  one  might 
be  expected  to  feel  the  force,  either  on  account  of 
some  late  public  event,  or  on  account  of  the  mis- 
fortune of  some  person,  which  had  been  much 
talked  of;  or  on  account  of  some  religious  diffi- 
culty, which  one  person  having  felt,  it  was  likely 
that  many  others  might  entertain;  or  else  on  ac- 
count simply  of  that  feeling  of  human  evanescence 
which  rises  in  the  mind  of  almost  every  one  with 
ending  one  year  and  beginning  another. 


A    TALE.  361 

Before  the  minister,  on  the  table,  lay  some  pa- 
pers, on  which  were  written  the  chief  thoughts 
for  what  he  intended  should  be  his  discourse. 
And  as  he  looked  at  them  he  said,  "  Ah,  these 
may  be  pearls,  perhaps,  but  they  will  never  be 
thought  so,  without  being  strung  on  a  thread  of 
gold.  A  golden  thread!  And  then  whatever  falls 
from  it  to  each  man  will  quite  certainly  be  reck- 
oned a  pearl  of  wisdom  and  great  price." 

Then  he  read  to  himself  the  following,  —  link- 
ing the  sentiments  together  with  the  thoughts, 
which  he  intended  to  supply,  and  several  times 
repeating  his  text,  which  he  fancied  was  like 
stringing  gold  beads  with  his  pearls. 

"  This  life  of  ours  is  not  pleasure  only.  It  is 
pain,  it  is  sorrow  also,  and  purposely.  It  is  of 
such  a  nature  as  was  meant  to  make  us  serious. 
Though  it  should  make  you  more  serious,  yet  it 
is  far  better  that  you  "should  feel  what  life  really 
is.  It  is  infinitely  better  that  you  should  not 
think  it  to  be  a  pageant,  while  it  is  reality,  and 
that  you  should  not  be  feeling  it  like  sport,  while 
it  is  God's  earnest  with  you. 

"  There  are  other  troubles  than  what  pitfalls 
misfortune  digs,  or  what  vacancies  about  us 
death  may  make,  or  what  sorrows  sin  may  push 
us  into,  or  what  sufferings  mortality  may  make 


362 


THORPE, 


us  feel.  There  are  seasons  in  which  the  soul  sad- 
dens as  though  of  itself.  And  against  these  times 
a  right  feeling  is  necessary,  as  much  as  it  is  for 
those  calamitous  occasions  which  grow  awful  from 
God's  eclipsing  the  sun  from  us  in  the  day,  or 
from  his  making  the  night  be  as  dreadful  to  us 
as  though  the  moon  in  the  sky  were  turned  into 
blood.  The  growth  of  the  soul  is  not  all  joy; 
for  very  often  it  is  sorrow  as  well.  Joy  it  might 
be  altogether,  did  the  soul  open  its  faculties  as 
easily  and  orderly  as  a  flower  unfolds  its  leaves. 
But  this  it  does  not  do.  And  so  it  may  happen 
that  a  man  may  be  the  holier,  only  to  feel  life 
sadden  as  he  advances  in  it. 

"  Bitterness,  despair,  and  merely  like  a  curse 
is  the  first  great  trouble  that  comes  to  a  soul 
which  has  not  first  suffered  by  sympathy.  Old 
age  will  wither  your  soul  as  well  as  your  body,  if 
as  a  young  man  you  refuse  to  grow  into  the 
spirit  of  a  suffering  world. 

"  A  proud  man  is  a  monstrosity  when  he  is 
thought  of.  A  man  prides  himself  over  other 
men  on  account  of  the  clothes  he  wears,  the  large 
house  he  lives  in,  the  way  in  which  he  is  waited 
on,  and  his  delicate  manner  of  living ;  while  poor 
people  have  coarse  clothing,  hard  fare,  and  poor 
lodgings.  As  though  God  could  not  easily  have 


A    TALE.  363 

adapted  the  earth  to  man  in  such  a  way  as  that 
the  rocks  would  have  housed  him  like  grand  pal- 
aces, and  the  trees  have  maintained  him  on  lus- 
cious fruits  always  ripe,  and  garments  have  been 
yielded,  colored  like  the  flowers !  A  householder, 
a  very  comfortable  householder,  are  you  ?  But 
also  you  are  a  dweller  in  the  earth.  And  it  is  for 
you  to  look  out  into  the  world,  and  to  feel  some 
responsibility  about  it.  And  really  this  responsi- 
bleness  is  laid  upon  you ;  and  if  it  were  not,  then 
it  would  be  good  for  you  to  pray  for  it.  When 
a  man  becomes  independent,  and  uplifts  himself 
above  want,  it  is  well.  For  he  has  had  the  good 
of  it.  But  to  be  born  above  want  is  a  question- 
able good,  unless  the  man  keeps  himself  in  com- 
munion with  it  through  his  sympathies. 

"  Let  me  weep  with  them  that  weep,  feel  for  the 
sufferers  about  me;  let  me  believe  that  in  part 
men  are  afflicted  for  me  to  pity  them,  —  that  they 
are  lowly  for  me  to  enter  into  their  feelings ;  and 
then  there  will  be  no  pride  possible  in  me,  nor 
despair.  Let  a  man  live  on  in  the  Christian  spirit, 
and  he  will  feel  the  world  grow  divine  about  him. 
And  he  will  say,  '  Always  God  was  here ;  though 
I  knew  it  not.' 

"  Take  the  Bible  and  read  it.  And  you  will 
have  your  soul  closer  to  the  soul  of  Isaiah,  than 


364  THORPE, 

if  you  held  his  living  hand  in  your  warm  pres- 
sure. 

"  Envy  nobody  ;  covet  nothing  worldly ;  go  quiet- 
ly about  your  work.  And  believe  that  a  man  may 
work  at  an  anvil,  and  be  as  religious  as  if  it  were 
his  office  to  stand  at  the  altar.  Amos,  the  proph- 
et, said  of  himself,  '  I  was  no  prophet,  neither 
was  I  a  prophet's  son ;  but  I  was  an  herdman,  and 
a  gatherer  of  sycamore-fruit;  and  the  Lord  took 
me  as  I  followed  the  flock,  and  the  Lord  said  unto 
me,  Go,  prophesy  unto  my  people  Israel.'  But 
you  say  that  you  want  to  do  something  signal; 
that  you  crave  a  great  opportunity.  But  more 
than  your  hands  or  your  strength,  it  is  your  heart 
that  God  wants.  Be  quiet,  and  do  your  little 
duties.  Do  them  for  God,  be  they  ever  such  little 
things,  and  then  they  will  become  great  results. 
For  every  godly  worker  has  God  a  worker  together 
with  him. 

"  O  the  mysteries  of  life!  It  is  well  worth 
living  the  last  ten  of  threescore  years  and  ten,  if 
only  to  have  these  mysteries  to  wonder  at,  —  to 
wonder  at  with  ever-deepening  awe. 

"It  is  come  among  us,  —  the  New  Year!  And 
it  is  being  followed  by  the  months.  The  months, 
—  one  of  them  is  coming  wrapped  in  snow-storms ; 
and  another  will  come  crowned  with  flowers,  and 


A    TALE.  365 

will  linger  long  days  with  her  foot  on  the  green 
turf.  The  months, —  one  of  them  is  coming  with 
gain  for  this  man,  and  loss  for  that ;  'and  another 
of  them,  perhaps,  is  hastening  to  come  and  see  one 
of  us  die.  The  months,  —  perhaps  one  will  bring 
a  fair  bride  for  a  happy  husband;  and  another 
will  approach,  spade  in  hand,  all  unexpectedly  to 
dig  a  grave  for  some  fond  father's  child.  The 
months,  the  coming  months !  O  the  things  they 
will  bring,  and  the  things  they  will  do !  Well 
may  we  expect  them  with  hope  and  fear,  —  with 
hope  that  dies  away  into  fear,  and  with  fear  that 
changes  and  passes  into  hope.  But  for  us  to 
grow  religious  we  must  be  mindful  of  one  anoth- 
er, and  each  sympathize  with  the  other  in  what- 
ever the  months  may  bring  him :  and  we  must 
have  awe  towards  God  for  the  way  in  which 
unceasingly  he  blends  his  providence  with  the 
round  of  the  year,  with  sunshine  and  darkness, 
birth  and  death,  work  and  quiet,  joy  and  sorrow, 
and  all  human  things." 

While  the  minister  was  intent  upon  his  sermon, 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  approached  him  with  a  note. 
By  its  look  it  seemed  as  though  it  might  have 
been  an  invitation  to  a  festive  party.  But  it  was 
really  written  hastily,  to  tell  of  the  dying  state 
of  Mr.  Coke.  While  laying  the  note  before  him, 


366  THORPE, 

the  housekeeper  said  to  the  minister,  "  Please,  sir, 
I  wish  you  a  happy  new  year." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite.  And  in  re- 
turn I  wish  you  a  happy  new  year,"  said  the  min- 
ister, holding  in  his  hand  the  unopened  note. 

"  O,  dear ! "  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite.  "  How 
time  does  fly !  The  longest  life  is  but  a  parcel  of 
moments." 

"  And  so,"  said  the  minister,  "  so,  as  an  old  phi- 
losopher used  to  teach,  we  should  live  as  though 
our  lives  ( would  be  both  long  and  short." 

"  It  is  eleven  years  to-day,  sir,  since  my  poor 
Thomas  was  taken  with  his  last  illness.  But  dy- 
ing is  as  natural  as  living.  And,  as  the  old  say- 
ing is,  I  wept  when  I  was  born,  and  every  day 
shows  why." 

"  And  if  we  will  not  learn  it  in  humility,  we 
must  do  so,  earlier  or  later,  in  confusion.  And 
this  is  true,  as  we  cannot  help  feeling.  Let  us 
look  up  on  high  to  God,  and  then  it  will  trouble 
us  to  recollect  no  tears  that  we  have  ever  shed, 
but  only  perhaps  some  which  we  never  have 
wept." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  she,  drying  her  eyes,  "  a  good 
conscience  is  the  best  divinity,  as  the  old  adage 
is.  And  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  it  was  in  a 
sermon  on  a  New  Year's  Day,  one  Sunday,  more 


A    TALE.  367 

than  forty  years  ago.  Take  time  while  time  is, 
for  time  \rtill  away.  Ah,  they  may  well  say  so ! 
However,  we  talk  and  talk,  but  God  does  what  he 
pleases.  And,  as  the  old  proverb  says,  love  may 
gain  all,  but  time  destroys  all,  and  death  ends 
all." 


THORPE, 


XLIV. 

AFTER  five  years  Martin  May  returned  to 
Thorpe  on  a  short  visit.  And  as  he  walked  from 
the  Dell  up  to  the  town,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
recognized  every  tree  and  bush  and  stone  on  the 
way.  And  as  he  went  along,  it  felt  to  him  as 
though  he  were  in  a  dream;  for  every  object 
seemed  to  him  both  familiar  and  strange.  He 
met  a  youth  of  fifteen,  and  then  an  old  man  with 
a  staff,  and  then  a  blushing  young  lady  of  twenty. 
And  they  all  stared  at  him,  and  started,  and  then 
exclaimed,  «  What,  Mr.  May! "  "  Why,  Mr.  May !  " 
"  Mr.  May,  I  do  declare !  " 

He  went  straight  to  the  Parsonage.  There  were 
the  same  trees  standing;  and  the  gate  to  it  still 
opened  in  the  same  way  it  used  to.  It  was  the 
same  place  it  used  to  be ;  and  yet  easily  he  could 
have  believed  it  not  the  same.  About  the  house 
the  grounds  were  very  neat;  but  so  they  always 


A    TALE.  369 

had  been.  And  to  look  at,  the  house  was  very 
clean ;  but  then  so  it  always  had  been.  Cheer- 
fulness, —  yes,  that  was  the  difference  which  there 
was  about  the  house.  For  in  the  trees  the  breezes 
which  used  to  make  loneliness  audible  seemed  now 
to  Martin  May  to  soothe  the  listener  with  whis- 
pers of  peace  and  love. 

At  the  house-door  his  ring  at  the  bell  was  an- 
swered by  a  young  woman  looking  full  of  bloom, 
and  happiness.  On  his  asking  to  see  the  minister, 
the  young  woman  said,  "  He  is  out ;  and  he  will 
not  be  home  till  to-morrow.  But,  Mr.  May,  —  Or 
Mr.  May,  will  you  not  walk  in?" 

"  And  so  you  remember  me,  do  you,  Sarah,  — 
Sarah  Burtenshaw?  But  you  have  returned  from 
London." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  living  here  now.  For  when 
there  was  a  housemaid  wanted,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite 
had  the  minister  send  for  me.  But  do  walk  in, 
for  my  mistress  will  soon  be  in.  She  is  only  gone 
out  for  an  afternoon  wajk  with  little  Richard." 

"  No,  Sarah,  no.  I  will  call  again  to-morrow 
evening.  And  give  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite, will  you?" 

As  he  went  up  the  street  from  the  Parsonage 
he  met  a  lady,  who  was  bending  down  over  a  little 
child  that  was  taking  some  of  its  first  steps.  And 

24 


370 


THORPE, 


he  thought  certainly  it  was  Miss  Barbara  Shelmer- 
dine,  with  some  neighbor's  child.  And  soon  after- 
wards he  met  another  lady,  who  seemed  to  him 
like  a  mother  anxiously  hastening  after  her  infant. 
And  he  looked  back,  and  said  to  himself,  "  This 
road  is  exactly  the  same  as  it  was.  But  even  if 
it  were  not ;  and  even  though  they  altered  ever  so 
often,  —  the  ways  of  the  world,  —  yet  they  would 
not  change  so  often  as  the  feet  that  walk  them." 

He  sought  Percy  Coke,  and  he  found  him  in  a 
'field  next  to  his  house.  He  was  sitting  on  a  hay- 
cock, writing  in  a  note-book  with  a  pencil.  And 
•near  him,  on  the  hay,  sat  a  little  child  playing  with 
some  wild-flowers. 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  When  the  two  friends 
had  both  asked  and  answered  one  another  this 
common  question,  they  looked  at  one  another  for 
a  while  in  silence.  After  a  few  more  personal  in- 
quiries had  been  exchanged,  Martin  May  said, 
"  Your  book,  Percy,  your  book !  You  have  never 
let  me  know  how  it  succeeded." 

"  It  did  not  succeed  at  all,"  said  Percy,  with  a 
bitter  smile. 

"  O,  I  do  not  know  that.  You  have  been  expect- 
ing too  much,  and  too  soon.  And  I  have  no  doubt 
that  great,  very  great  success  is  a  much  smaller 
thing  than  you  think." 


A    TALE.  371 

"  Perhaps  so,  —  yes,  I  dare  say." 

"  You  speak  up  in  the  world  your  loudest,  hop- 
ing to  have  every  body  hear  you.  But  then  think 
how  many  others  there  are  wanting  to  be  heard  in 
the  world  as  well  as  you,  —  novelists,  historians, 
politicians,  preachers,  poets,  —  a  man  or  more  in 
every  town;  —  a  vast  multitude  of  men.  Hark 
how  they  speak  and  sing  and  declaim  and  de- 
monstrate, read,  beseech,  shriek,  roar,  and  rave ! 
And  among  them  all,  what  are  you  ?  Your  own 
highest  hope,  what  is  it?  Is  not  it  that,  amid  all 
this  noise,  these  echoes,  your  own  utterance  may 
be  something  of  the  nature  of  a  still,  small  voice  ? 
So  then  for  a  few  years  it  is  enough,  success 
enough,  if  you  can  make  yourself  well  heard  by 
me,  and  a  few  hundreds  of  those  who  are  nearest 
about  you." 

"  A  few  hundreds !  In  a  whole  year  there  were 
only  thirty-seven  copies  of  the  book  sold." 

"  Thirty-seven  !     No  more  ?  " 

"  Not  one  more,"  said  Percy,  in  a  tone  of  some 
little  mortification. 

"  Not  one  more,  —  you  are  sure  of  that  ?  Then 
I  am  glad,  heartily  glad.  Why,  it  is  ludicrous, 
absolutely  ludicrous.  It  is  a  joke.  It  is  Fortune 
joking  with  you.  And  she  will  own  you  for  her 
favorite  yet,  I  am  sure  she  will.  Twenty  years 


372  THORPE 


hence,  what  a  tale  it  will  be  to  tell,  —  what  a  joke 
to  laugh  at,  —  what  a  humble  beginning  to  be  proud 
of!  Thirty-seven  copies  in  a  year!  Thirty-seven 
copies  in  twelve  months,  among  thirty  millions 
of  people ! " 

"  A  volume  that  had  cost  me  two  years  of  hard 
work,  —  nay,  thirty  years  I  may  say.  For  of  all 
my  life,  and  all  my  studies,  this  book,  four  years 
ago,  was  the  whole  result." 

"  Why,  it  is  ludicrous,  really  ridiculous,  that 
there  should  have  been  sold  of  such  a  book  only 
thirty-seven  copies." 

"  And  perhaps  not  one  of  them  has  been  read. 
For  very  likely  they  were  all  of  them  bought  and 
opened  and  pushed  aside  by  people  who  said 
that  they  thought  it  had  been  something  else." 

"  Thirty-seven  copies !  Well,  Percy,  myself  I 
should  rather  it  had  been  thirty-seven  than  three 
hundred  and  seventy.  For  the  larger  number  as 
a  sale  might  have  been  reckoned  a  failure.  But 
the  smaller  number  is  not  even  that.  Well,  at 
the  beginning  I  do  not  know  how  it  should  be 
otherwise  with  a  man  like  you,  —  a  philosopher 
of  no  connections,  no  friends  out  of  Thorpe,  and 
with  scarcely  a  correspondent.  After  all,  it  is  not 
very  strange." 

"  No  man  is  minded,    Martin,  for  the  wisdom 


A    TALE.  373 

which  he  speaks.  A  person  is  listened  to,  not  for 
what  he  says,  but  only  for  who  he  is.  And  who 
he  is  does  not  matter  much,  so  only  that  he  is 
notorious.  I  could  have  a  sale  for  my  book  now, 
if  I  would  stand  on  my  head  on  London  Bridge 
for  an  hour,  or  if  I  would  go  up  on  horseback 
under  a  balloon,  or  if  the  Quarterly  Review  would 
either  praise  me  or  abuse  me,  or  if  I  could  procure 
myself  to  be  suspected  of  treason,  or  if  I  would 
publish  some  nonsense  verses  for  the  nursery." 

"  It  is  because  of  your  being  so  trustworthy  that 
you  have  succeeded  so  ill.  For  an  author  who 
is  of  no  sect  and  no  party  is  a  man  of  no  friends, 
and  with  the  world  all  round  him  for  his  enemy." 

"  My  uncle  George  was  right,  altogether  right, 
in  what  he  said  as  to  the  difficulty,  and  almost 
the  impossibility,  of  my  getting  a  hearing  from 
the  public.  He  was  a  great  man,  —  a  greater 
man  than  I  at  all  thought  him,  while  I  was  a 
mere  scholar.  There  are  sayings  of  his  which 
sound  to  me  now  so  wise  as  well  as  noble.  Even 
knowing  what  I  know  now,  I  do  not  think  I 
should  have  become  a  merchant,  but  certainly  I 
should  have  been  more  pliant  to  my  uncle's  coun- 
sel than  I  was.  And  I  am  very  sure  that,  were 
he  living  now,  he  would  be  able  to  show  me  some 
way  in  a  direction  in  which  I  can  myself  find 


374  THORPE, 

at  present  no  path.  I  thought  I  had  only  to  say 
to  the  public,  that  I  wished  to  speak,  and  that 
then  I  should  be  heard  at  once,  and  thankfully." 

"  I  am  not  sure  but  now  you  think  too  well 
of  the  public,  —  too  highly  of  its  discrimination; 
or  else  I  should  say  that  in  regard  to  you  and  it 
there  had  been  verified  the  Eastern  proverb,  that 
the  wise  man  knows  the  fools  about  him,  but  the 
fools  do  not  know  the  wise  man." 

"  But,"  said  Percy,  "  but  after  all,  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  book  ought  to  have  succeeded.  I 
wrote  it  before  I  was  married,  as  you  know.  If 
I  had  been  the  advocate  of  a  sect,  there  would 
have  been  more  zeal  in  it;  or  if  I  had  been  the 
assailant  of  some  established  institution,  there 
would  have  been  more  heat  in  it.  If  I  had  been 
a  husband,  there  would  have  been  more  tender- 
ness in  it ;  and  if  I  had  been  a  father,  there  would 
have  been  more  earnestness  in  it.  It  is  wanting 
in  heart.  I  wrote  it  when  I  was  almost  as  much 
disconnected  from  all  institutions  and  social  ties, 
as  if  I  had  been  a  subject  of  Caractacus,  just 
come  to  life  again.  But  I  am  now  very  certain 
that,  for  a  man  to  be  able  to  speak  his  best  to 
the  men  of  his  time,  he  must  have  in  him  the 
life-blood  of  his  time.  Paul  had  that  ;  and  so 
had  Luther  and  Latimer ;  and  so  have  all  the 


A    TALE.  375 

best  poets  had,  —  Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  Spen- 
ser." 

"  But  from  that  note-book  I  suppose  you  are 
yet  expecting  to  do  something  some  time,  Percy." 

"  Come  here,  Louisa,  come.  Yes,  with  my  child 
in  my  eyes,  I  find  I  have  other  thoughts  than  I 
have  among  my  books.  And  sometimes  they 
seem  to  me  worth  preserving.  And  my  friend 
Lingard  says  that  he  is  sure  the  hour  will  come 
that  will  call  on  me  for  something  great,  and  that 
I  shall  say  it." 

"  And  he,  —  how  is  he  ?  " 

"  Here  he  is."  And  so  saying,  Percy  drew 
from  amongst  the  hay  a  book. 

"  This !  This  book,  do  you  say,  is  Lingard's  ? 
How  strange !  How  strange  that  I  should  never 
have  known  it !  For  all  over  the  States  this  vol- 
ume has  a  most  enviable  reputation.  A  man  so 
careless  of  fame,  and  apparently  so  unmindful  of 
every  thing  but  his  own  immediate  duties  and  the 
few  people  nearest  him,  he  was  almost  the  last 
person  from  whom  I  should  have  expected  a  book." 

"  I  persuaded  his  wife,  and  his  wife  persuaded 
him',  that  it  was  his  duty  to  write  it.  And  till 
very  recently  I  do  not  suppose  that  five  persons 
out  of  Thorpe  have  known  of  him  as  the  author. 
Last  week  there  came  two  gentlemen  to  see  him, 


376  THORPE 


with  the  purpose  of  offering  him  a  lucrative  pro- 
fessorship. And  they  were  not  a  little  surprised 
at  finding  him  the  occupant  of  a  Presbyterian 
Parsonage.  And  so,  when  they  found  that  he 
was  a  determined  nonconformist,  they  could  do 
no  more  than  express  their  great  admiration  of  his 
genius." 

"  His  wife !  Just  now  you  mentioned  his  wife. 
But  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  married." 

"  Yes,  he  is.  Three  years  ago  he  was  married 
to  Miss  Shelmerdine,  a  lady  who  used  to  come 
visiting  here  sometimes,  —  an  excellent  woman ! 
A  woman  of  wonderful  energy,  and  almost  won- 
derful goodness !  She  draws  us  all  into  her  own 
ways,  and  they  are  always  so  kind  and  pleasant. 
But  my  Alice,  —  you  must  see  her.  No,  you  have 
not:  you  have  never  seen  her  at  all,  because  you 
have  never  seen  her  in  a  house  of  her  own.  There 
is  only  one  thing  on  which  we  do  not  agree, — 
she  and  I;  and  it  is  in  regard  to  the  minister's 
wife.  For  Alice  always  will  say  that  she  is  the 
best  of  women.  Whereas  myself  I  hold  that 
Mrs.  Lingard  is  excellent,  is  tender-hearted  and 
thoughtful,  is  very  accomplished  as  a  woman,  and 
very  affectionate  as  a  wife ;  and  still  is  only  the 
next  woman  after  the  best,  the  next  best  after  my 
Alice." 


A    TALE.  377 

"  And  on  what  subject  has  been  your  reading, 
the  last  year  or  two." 

"  Theology,  patristical  and  modern." 

"  And  on  that  subject  you  stand  how  ? " 

"  As  I  did ;  and  always  with  my  face  towards 
Christ,  although  one  day  I  stand  beside  St.  Paul, 
and  another  day  along  side  of  St.  James.  For  I 
find  that  I  am  a  man  of  more  moods  than  one 
or  two ;  and  that  for  every  proper  mood  Christian- 
ity offers  a  congenial  aspect.  And  so  one  day 
I  feel  like  a  predestinarian,  and  another  day  I  feel 
strong  with  my  free  will.  And  one  season  I  feel 
that  I  have  to  search  the  Scriptures,  and  have  all 
human  helps  about  me,  in  order  to  arrive  at  a 
knowledge  of  the  truth.  And  another  season  I 
feel  as  though  I  have  only  to  be  still  and  so  have 
the  Holy  Spirit  flow  in  upon  my  soul  like  wis- 
dom and  holiness." 

"But  consistency " 

"  It  is  not  in  the  moods  of  the  soul,  but  in  the 
soul  itself.  Earnestness  in  duty,  —  this  is  what 
keeps  a  soul  straight,  and  on  the  right  path.  And 
on  that  path  a  man  may  walk  and  rejoice  himself 
with  a  hymn  of  Luther's  to-day,  and  with  verses 
of  St.  Ambrose  to-morrow,  and  at  another  time 
with  some  hymn  of  Doddridge's." 

"  I  think,  Percy,  I  understand  you  now." 


378  THORPE, 

"  I  believe  with  Augustine  one  day,  and  with 
Pelagius  another;  but  when  they  contradict  one 
another,  I  disbelieve  them  both,  and  I  have  an 
ear  only  to  Christ." 

«  Good ! " 

"  The  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus  is  greater  than  any 
man  can  speak  logically.  Luther  utters  some- 
thing of  it,  and  Calvin  something,  and  Zuingle 
something,  and  George  Fox  something,  and  Wil- 
liam Penn  something  more.  But  when  any  two 
of  them  contradict  one  another,  I  suppose  perhaps 
they  are  both  wrong." 

"  Good,  very  good !  " 

"  Winchester  and  Calvin,  John  Wesley  and 
John  Taylor  of  the  Hebrew  Concordance,  —  all 
your  respective  doctrines  are  true  to  me,  more  or 
less,  at  one  time  or  another ;  but  when  you  strait- 
en them  into  antagonism  with  one  another,  then 
they  become  false  to  me." 

"  But  Calvin  looking  over  into  the  bottomless 
pit,  where  souls  are  in  torment  for  ever ;  and  Win- 
chester turning  up  to  God  his  ecstatic  face,  in  ad- 
oration of  the  way  in  eternity  by  which  at  last 
all  souls  are  gathered  into  the  bosom  of  God,  — 
you  cannot  believe  them  both." 

"  Nor  either  of  them.  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
mean.  In  regard  to  the  great  future  of  souls,  — 


A    TALE.  379 

the  wretched  ones  of  earth,  —  I  hope  with  all  the 
hopefulness  of  Winchester's  reasoning,  and  I  fear 
with  all  the  terribleness  of  Calvin's  statements,  — 
I  walk  in  the  sunshine  of  hope  at  its  brightest, 
and  in  the  shadows  of  fears  at  their  darkest. 
And  so  my  soul  in  me  is  kept  lively  and  thought- 
ful and  earnest,  and  ever  at  the  point  of  prayer." 

"  Good ! "  said  Martin  May.  "  That  is  a  good 
position." 

"  And,"  said  Percy,  "  I  hold  it  in  regard  to 
several  other  doctrines,  which  commonly  are  re- 
garded as  opposites  to  one  another  by  the  dis- 
ciples respectively  of  Catholicism  and  individual- 
ism, rationalism  and  supernaturalism.  And  this 
faith  of  mine  —  or  rather  this  manner  of  holding 
some  of  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  —  is  in  har- 
mony with  my  belief  in  the  God  of  the  Bible. 
For  I  do  thoroughly  believe  in  the  Scriptural  doc- 
trine of  God, —  the  God  of  a  covenant, —  a  God 
who  loves  and  hates,  —  a  God  who  draws  nigh 
a  man  and  withdraws  from  him, —  and  hereafter 
who  will  punish  one  and  forgive  another." 

"  A  belief  which  is  held  now  only  by  one  man 
in  ten,  and  by  him  only  in  his  ignorance.  But  in 
your  book  I  think  you  have  shown  that  really  it 
is  a  doctrine  in  which  meet  and  harmonize  togeth- 
er revelation  at  its  brightest  and  reason  at  its 


THORPE, 

clearest.  But,  Percy,  this  little  girl  of  yours,  — 
what  a  sweet,  beautiful  child  it  is." 

"  Yes,  so  she  is.     Here,  Louisa,  come  to  me." 

"  How  graceful,  how  very  beautiful !  She  is 
like  infant  poesy." 

"  To  me  though  she  is  theology,  or  at  least  a 
help  to  it.  For  this  little  child  occasions  me 
fresher  and  more  earnest  thoughts  in  religion  than 
Calvin,  or  Jeremy  Taylor,  or  any  other  theologian." 

"  You  deriving  to  yourself  instruction  out  of 
the  mouth  of  a  babe." 

"  This  child,"  said  Percy,  "  Louisa  looking 
up  to  me,  and  T  looking  up  to  God,  I  have 
my  heart  the  while  fill  with  other  feelings  than 
I  have  ever  known  before.  And  those  feelings 
are  more  trustworthy,  I  am  sure,  than  some 
of  the  thoughts  to  which  logic  conducts  me. 
Yes,  and  when  I  perceive  through  what  a  cloud 
of  ignorance  this  child  looks  up  to  me,  and  how 
she  looks  up  to  me  aright  only  on  the  prompting 
of  her  heart,  then  myself  I  am  conscious  that, 
Christian  though  I  am,  yet  that  I  cannot  look  up 
to  God  aright  on  the  showing  of  my  own  un- 
derstanding, but  only  as  it  were  by  looking  up 
along  the  feelings  which  rise  from  within  my 
heart,  quickened  there  by  the  Holy  Spirit." 

"  Percy,  I  cannot  believe,  and  I  do  not  believe, 


A    TALE. 

but  that  you  are  to  do  service  in  the  world  yet, 
—  good  service.  But  I  suppose,  even  now  with 
your  temporary  failure,  that  you  are  as  happy  as 
you  can  be,  or  ever  will  be.  O,  never  fear  but 
you  will  be  a  prophet  yet,  and  be  stoned.  You 
will  be  a  philosopher,  and  have  readers  grow  wise 
on  your  thoughts,  and  then  deny  you.  Do  not 
doubt  it.  You  will  rise  yet  in  the  world,  and  be 
a  high  mark  for  the  calumnies  of  the  malignant. 
Be  sure  of  that.  You  will  be  a  wise  master- 
builder  in  the  temple  of  eternal  truth  ;  and  you  will 
be  paid  with  something  less  than  the  wages  of  an 
Irish  hodman.  Never  doubt  it.  True  greatness 
and  its  miseries,  you  will  achieve  them  all.  I  am 
sure  you  will.  For  it  is  your  destiny  to  do  so,  I 
believe.  Though,  seriously,  I  would  not  have  you 
despair  of  usefulness  for  one  moment.  Here, 
Louisa,  come  to  me ;  for  we  must  be  rapid  in  our 
friendship." 

"  But  not  of  necessity,  I  hope,  Martin.  For 
you  will  stay  a  few  weeks  with  us  certainly." 

"  Two  days,  Percy,  only  two  days,  —  to-morrow 
and  Sunday." 


382  THORPE, 


XLV. 

ON  Sunday  afternoon  Martin  May  and  Percy 
Coke  talked  together  for  half  an  hour  in  the  grave- 
yard, before  the  time  of  service  in  the  chapel. 

"  Your  uncle  was  buried  here,  was  he  not,  Per- 
cy ?  I  saw  him  only  twice.  And  yet  there  are 
few  recollections  of  my  former  visit  to  England 
which  are  equally  vivid  with  my  remembrances  of 
your  uncle  George.  A  noble  man  to  look  at,  and 
I  suppose  in  his  day  and  work  a  most  efficient 
man!" 

"  In  a  tomb  underneath  this  stone  he  rests  from 
his  labors.  Yes,  here  he  ceases  from  his  con- 
quests, while  easily  and  triumphantly  in  Man- 
chester and  elsewhere  other  men  are  gathering 
the  fruits  of  them  and  the  rewards.  The  way 
of  life  in  this  world !  At  least  it  is  so,  and  I 
suppose  always  must  be  so,  wherever  there  are 
ignorance  and  oppression,  and  where  martyrs  have 


A    TALE.  383 

to  arise.  No,  no!  Earthly  reward,  the  purest, 
is  not  the  great,  grand  end  to  think  of,  in  the  great 
battle  of  this  world.  But  this  is  it,  —  that  when 
we  fall, —  as  fall  we  must,  only  some  of  us,  per- 
haps, a  little  later  in  the  fight  than  others,  —  that 
we  fall  with  our  faces  in  the  right  direction,  look- 
ing towards  God,  the  great  spectator,  who  never 
wearies." 

"  That  great  spectator,  in  whose  notice  of  us 
is  all  our  courage  and  hope,"  said  Martin  May. 
"  Six,  eight,  ten !  I  can  count  here  ten  persons, 
who  were  alive  and  well  five  years  ago,  and  are 
now  only  names  upon  gravestones.  The  earnest- 
ness and  the  labor  and  the  tragedy  of  life,  all 
narrowed  down  to  a  name  upon  a  gravestone! 
What  a  humbling  sight !  " 

"  But,"  said  Percy,  "  the  secrets  that  are  bur- 
ied in  the  grave,  sometimes  !  Think  of  them,  — 
things  which  men  never  knew  of,  and  over  which 
now  the  grass  grows.  There  must  be  many 
a  tragedy  in  life,  which  is  almost  only  of  the 
thoughts  and  feelings,  and  hardly  at  all  of  either 
speech  or  action.  And  perhaps  some  such  trage- 
dy may  have  found  its  close  under  this  very  turf, 
even  though  life  is  so  quiet  in  this  town  of  Thorpe. 
Of  suffering  and  tenderness  and  moral  struggle  in 
this  world,  how  much  more  must  God  see  than 


384  THORPE, 

what  we  know  of !  How  almost  infinitely  more! 
And  so  we  cannot  well  hope  in  him  too  much,  — 
the  dear  God  who  watches  us." 

"  Louisa  Lawton,  the  name  on  that  stone,  I 
think,"  said  Martin  May,  "  I  think  I  remember 
it." 

"  You  may  perhaps  have  heard  it  before,  but 
I  hardly  think  you  can.  For  the  lady  came  to 
live  here  after  the  death  of  my  uncle,  and  there- 
fore after  you  had  left  Thorpe,  and  indeed  after 
you  had  sailed  from  Liverpool.  She  was  very 
kind  to  Alice  and  myself,  —  very  kind  indeed. 
She  was  some  "remote  relation  of  mine,  and 
showed  great  interest  in  me.  She  died,  as  you 
see,  about  two  years  ago.  She  was  a  great  loss 
to  Alice  and  me.  "We  named  our  little  girl  after 
her.  She  was  declining  in  health  when  she  came 
here  to  live.  But  I  never  thought  otherwise  than 
that  she  would  be  spared  to  us  for  many  years, 
till  one  day  when  she  fainted  at  our  house.  She 
was  sitting  by  the  window,  apparently  thinking 
of  something  sad.  And,  to  divert  her  attention,  I 
laid  the  baby  on  her  lap,  and  said,  '  Louisa  Coke, 
your  god-daughter.'  But  as  soon  as  I  had  said 
so,  she  turned  pale  and  fainted.  And  after  that 
day  she  declined  very  fast,  and  soon  died." 

"  It  must  have  been  in  conversation,  some  time, 


A    TALE.  385 

that  I  heard  her  name,  I  suppose ;  for  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  remember  it ;  and  yet  I  do  not  rec- 
ollect ever  to  have  met  any  lady  of  her  name.*' 

"And  now,"  said  Percy,  "let  us  go  into  the 
chapel ;  for  see,  the  people  are  beginning  to  come 
up  the  street." 

Martin  May  sat  in  the  minister's  pew,  with 
Mrs.  Lingard.  And  when  he  left  the  chapel,  he 
carried  away  the  conclusion  of  the  sermon,  not  in 
his  memory  only,  but  also  in  some  hasty  notes 
which  he  took. 

"  We  walk  by  the  help  of  the  same  law  of  grav- 
itation which  the  moon  moves  by.  And  when 
it  is  night,  we  see  our  way  by  the  light  of  other 
worlds,  the  hosts  of  heaven.  And  our  spiritual 
life  is  just  as  wonderful.  We  are  living  by  mys- 
terious ways,  which  we  hardly  think  of;  and  we 
are  aided  by  remoter  helps  than  we  always  know. 
We  are  devout  with  the  devoutness  of  ancient 
Psalms,  —  with  the  remorse,  the  repentance,  the 
prayers,  the  trust,  the  hope,  —  with  the  heart  of 
an  old  Hebrew  king.  And  we  are  believers  in 
the  Father  through  words  of  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago.  There  is  on  us  an  impulse  from  what 
Moses  was  in  Egypt,  and  Leonidas  at  Ther- 
mopylae. There  is  with  us  as  our  delight  a  poet 
whose  person  has  been  Stratford  dust  these  two 

25 


386  THORPE, 

hundred  years  and  more.  And  every  day  para- 
dise is  sung  of,  within  our  hearing,  by  the  sweet 
voice  of  one  who  has  himself  vanished  from  sight 
long  ago.  There  is  on  our  souls,  too,  a  something 
of  beauty  that  is  from  ancient  Greece,  and  a 
something  of  solemnity  from  the  long,  long  past. 
When  we  speak,  the  words  of  our  mouth  are 
what  they  are  from  what  the  old  Germans  were 
in  their  forests,  and  from  the  manner  in  which 
the  ancient  Romans  talked.  And  our  own  lives, 
from  day  to  day,  are  the  wiser  and  the  calmer 
for  the  instruction  which  has  come  to  us  from 
hearts  that  are  now  beneath  the  turf. 

"  We  are  strangely  related.  Our  souls  are  mys- 
teriously connected.  We  are  akin  to  the  past, 
the  ages  of  the  past ;  and  so  we  may  well  believe 
ourselves  heirs  of  the  future,  —  as  indeed  we  are, 
—  heirs  to  futurity  and  other  worlds." 


A    TALE.  38? 


XLVI. 

MARTIN  MAY  passed  some  delightful  hours  at 
the  Parsonage,  after  the  public  services  of  the 
Sabbath  were  over.  He  thought  that  the  minis- 
ter  and  his  wife  in  talking  together  made  perfect 
music,  —  a  duet  of  sweet  sounds,  that  rose  and 
fell  together,  always  apparently  changing  into  one 
another,  and  yet  always  distinct.  In  talking  with 
himself,  he  noticed  that  the  minister  quoted  the 
opinions  of  his  wife  more  than  once,  but  books 
hardly  at  all,  —  neither  a  Father  of  the  Church, 
nor  a  classical  author.  Indeed,  all  the  day  he 
made  but  one  quotation  from  any  writer,  ancient 
or  modern. 

After  tea  Martin  May  sat  with  the  minister 
under  an  apple-tree  in  the  garden,  while  the  fe- 
males of  the  family  walked  about  and  looked  at 
the  flowers.  Martin  May  said,  "  I  hope  some  day 
to  talk  with  you  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 


388  THORPE, 

For  certainly,  sir,  some  time  you  will  wish  to  see 
the  beginnings  of  that  great  new  era  which  is 
commencing  in  the  world,  —  great  cities  rising  in 
the  midst  of  deserts,  and  sentiments  which  are  to 
be  great  social  principles,  but  which  as  yet  are 
forming  in  men's  minds  almost  imperceptibly. 
You  will  come  and  visit  the  States  some  time,  sir, 
certainly.  And  it  will  be  soon,  I  hope.  You  do 
intend  coming  some  time,  sir,  do  not  you  ?  " 

"  Barbara,"  said  the  minister,  calling  to  his 
wife,  "  Mr.  May  is  proposing  to  me  to  make  a 
visit  to  America.  And  to  do  so  would  not  take 
me  more  than  four  months.  What  do  you  think 
of  the  proposal  ?  " 

At  first  Mrs.  Lingard  looked  almost  terrified ; 
but  quickly  she  saw  something  in  her  husband's 
face  which  reassured  her,  and  she  sat  down  be- 
side him  and  replied,  "  Apart  from  one  another 
for  four  months  !  O,  no,  that  we  cannot  be  ! 
Because,  Richard,  what  remains  to  us  of  life  is 
not  more  than  enough  for  all  that  we  have  to 
talk  and  study  and  pray  and  enjoy  together. 
Four  months  !  O,  no,  we  could  not  be  apart 
while  so  much  time  as  that  went  on.  And  then 
little  Richard,  —  to  think  of  his  growing  four 
months  without  you  to  see  him  !  Four  months, — 
O  what  a  gulf  of  separation!  And  what  danger 


A   TALE.  389 

there  might  be  in  it !  Ah,  no,  we  will  never  let 
it  open  betwixt  us.  But  we  will  keep  by  one 
another  while  life  lasts,  and  never  be  apart  for 
more  than  a  few  hours,  or  at  most  a  few  hours' 
travel." 

"  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,"  said  the  minister,  "  come 
here.  We  want  you.  I  wish  to  speak  with  you. 
Mr.  May  wishes  me  to  return  with  him  to  Amer- 
ica, and  to  travel  there  for  a  few  months.  Do 
you  think  it  would  be  good  for  me  ?  Myself  I 
think  perhaps  it  might  be.  But  what  do  you 
advise  ?  " 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  drew  her  shawl  about  her, 
and  then  made  her  answer.  "  The  friar  preached 
against  stealing,  when  he  had  a  pudding  in  his 
sleeve.  For,  sir,  last  Sunday  afternoon,  was  not 
your  text  about  being  keepers  at  home  ?  It  is 
a  good  saying,  Praise  the  sea,  but  keep  on  land. 
And  besides,  the  cow  does  not  know  the  value 
of  her  tail  till  she  has  lost  it ;  and  a  man  does 
not  know  what  a  loss  home  is  till  he  is  on  a  jour- 
ney. And  then,  too,  to  travel  safely  through  the 
world,  a  man  must  have  a  falcon's  eye,  an  ass's 
ears,  a  merchant's  words,  a  camel's  back,  and  the 
mouth  of  a  hog.  And  I  am  sure  that  you  are 
too  good  a  man  to  be  possessed  of  all  those  qual- 
ifications. However,  I  have  no  fear  of  your  going. 


390  THORPE. 

For  Samson  was  a  strong  man,  and  yet  he  could 
not  pay  money  till  he  had  it.  And  I  think,  sir, 
you  will  hardly  go  from  home  without  full  leave 
from  the  mistress.  And  I  am  quite  sure  you 
would  never  go  away  anywhere  for  a  month  with- 
out permission  from  little  Dick.  And  he  cannot 
give  it,  nor  indeed  speak  at  all  yet." 

"  There ! "  said  the  minister,  in  a  desponding 
tone.  "  You  hear  what  they  say,  —  my  wife  and 
my  counsellor." 

"  But,  Mr.  Lingard,  what  do  you  say  yourself  ?  " 
"  Do  you  see  that  tree  against  the  house  ?  I 
planted  it  myself,  one  day  during  our  honeymoon, 
did  not  I,  Barbara  ?  Now,  Martin  May,  if  I  live, 
I  intend  to  keep  within  sight  of  that  tr^  till  it 
is  full  grown.  And  by  the  time  it  is  a  large  tree 
I  shall  be  an  old  man  perhaps.  And  I  shall  not 
then  be  inclined  to  wander,  but,  like  Peter  of 
Celles,  I-  shall  lean  my  staff  against  my  fig-tree, 
and  have  in  mind  the  eternal  years." 


THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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